


And Let That Be All

by behindthec



Category: Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman, Wicked RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Romance, chenzel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindthec/pseuds/behindthec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In retrospect, it was romantic and grand in its subtlety, if you close your eyes at the end.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  This began as one line in a Gmail draft entitled “Chenzel ideas to ignore.” Clearly that worked out well.
> 
> The title is from _If/Then_ and doubles as a representation of my feelings about the angst my brain refuses to stop spewing forth. Apparently "monstrous canon epic" is my niche in this fandom.
> 
> Fic complete.

 

 

 _I knew you, I loved you  
_ _And let that be all that I need_

 

_______________

 

 

They fall in love slowly, blissfully unaware until it’s much too late.

In retrospect, it was romantic and grand in its subtlety, if you close your eyes at the end. Kristin wonders whether, if she went back in time, she’d be able to stop it from starting. Whether or not she’d want to is another question altogether.

Some questions are best left unanswered.

 

+++

 

“What do you think?”

Kristin nibbles at her bottom lip as she studies the headshot in front of her. It’s too posed, too black and white to justify the voice she can still hear in her head.

Perfume still lingers in the air. _You’re not supposed to wear perfume to an audition_ , she thinks, a little too harshly because it smells divine and she doesn’t need the distraction. Was it perfume? It seems deeper, thicker. If she’s being honest, it reminds her of what Elphaba might really smell like -- a rich fusion of aromatic oils, intoxicating and heady. Maybe Idina’s just clever. Clever can cover missed notes, or so Kristin’s heard. 

The others have left the room, and at this stage she feels a little unqualified to answer. If Stephanie had signed on, everything would’ve been simpler. It’s been hard wrapping her head around a different incarnation of green. 

“She’s… raw, like Winnie said. In a good way.” 

“I know what Winnie said. I want to know what you think.” 

She looks up at Joe, and it’s hard to tell if this is a test. It’s always hard to tell, and that’s why she signed on. She withers without a challenge. 

“She was quieter than I expected. I think I expected Maureen. I think, maybe, she’s so good at the big sexy diva thing, because it’s not who she really is. She can lose herself in that. But maybe she’s more like Elphaba herself, so it might be hard for you to direct that, because it’ll be so personal. You know?” 

“Mm. Maybe.” 

“You up for the challenge?”  
  
“I’m already directing _you_.” 

Kristin squeaks indignantly, swatting at him with her notebook. 

“What else?” he asks. 

It’s definitely a test. She knows the decision’s not hers in the end, but he wants to know she’s conscious in this, that she’s got a good enough handle on their vision to know who should be playing opposite her.

Kristin can’t think of technicalities. It’s emotion driving her now, instinct. She can’t say her instinct has never steered her wrong, but she doesn’t regret anywhere it’s ever taken her, either.

She smiles. “I loved the green nail polish.” 

Joe rolls his eyes. 

She looks back at the photo, dragging her finger over the white-framed edge. “She gave me goosebumps.” 

“The song gives anyone goosebumps.”  
  
“It wasn’t the song.” 

“She’s not the strongest singer.” 

“I’m not worried about that. She can handle it.”

“Okay.” 

“I want to sing with her. I want to try ‘For Good’ with her.”  
  
“You want to bring her back?” 

Kristin takes a breath, catching another, softer trace of rose hips and vanilla. It’s fading.

“Yeah. I want to bring her back.”

 

+++

 

Some will tell you Kristin Chenoweth is full of heart. Some will tell you she's heartless. Both are true; both are lies. Who's ever one thing, all the time? Who hasn't bestowed both love and pain? Whose days haven’t run the gamut between heaven and hell? She's ambitious, yes. She was also raised right and she knows the value of compassion and goodness. The people who treat her well get the same respect in turn. But she knows in the end the only person we can rely on is ourselves, so we've got to come first. What would we have left, after all, when everyone else has disappointed and deserted? 

Kristin has this quirk where she starts to say something serious, and then smiles before she finishes her thought. _I’m no stranger to depression_ , with the smile breaking out on the last word. _No matter how many times you get rejected_ , smile, _it still stings._ A soft landing. If she can lighten the words, they’ll never penetrate too deep. 

Her mother always told her that if you can smile through it, it can’t be that bad. As a performer, it’s the holy grail. As a human being, it’s a wall -- but it’s a wall of glass. If someone can shatter the smile, they can shatter her. If they don’t, she’s safe. 

It’s no surprise her friendships are short-lived; relationships even shorter. She knows when to walk away. 

What she doesn’t know is when to stay.

 

-

 

She was half right: there’s a lot of Elphaba in Idina, but there’s some Glinda too, and more than a little Maureen. When her insecurities seep in, Idina’s quiet as the calm before a storm that never comes -- but when she’s feeling confident, when she’s sure of herself, she’s loud and laughing and daring, unafraid of a fight. She can be a ruthless flirt to anything that breathes, just like Kristin. In fact, Kristin may have met her match. Men are always so transparent, but with Idina it’s hard to tell if there’s any truth to it -- if it’s all in fun, or if maybe she means any of it, just a little. She wouldn’t be the first woman to hit on Kristin and mean it, but she might be the first one to make her blush. 

It’s safe, it’s good for the characters and it’s good for the show. Kristin welcomes it with open arms and flushed cheeks.

 

-

 

Working together on a show, it’s not something the rest of the world can understand. It’s like voluntary imprisonment, with showtunes. It instantly peels away a layer of the relationship, right off the bat. 

In the midst of the work, the characters, the unity towards a common goal and the long, aching hours it takes to get there, the version of yourself you construct for the rest of the world gets washed away. Kristin’s heard Idina on the phone with her fiancé, both arguing and not, and Idina’s heard Kristin talk to her family in a corner of the rehearsal space, trying to mitigate drama from thirteen hundred miles away. They’ve shared macchiatos from the same cup, borrowed each other’s lip balm, band-aids, tampons. Idina knows which pocket of Kristin’s purse holds her inhaler, and Kristin knows to check for peanuts before sharing her snacks. It progresses with the momentum of a friendship on fast-forward: the timeline simply speeds up, propelling them from strangers to castmates to something a little too intimate to define. 

They don’t share secrets or go shopping; they talk about Streisand and music and art and food and argue about characters from _The Simpsons_ and when the break’s over, their voices dance in harmony. ( _Did you know_ , Kristin tells her, _when you sing a duet, your heartbeats sync up?_ ) Idina talks with her hands, beautifully and wildly expressive, and Kristin soaks up the way Idina looks at her when Kristin sings. 

They become fast attuned to looks and body language so she knows when Idina’s starting to crumble under pressure and Idina knows when Kristin’s starting to fizzle from the lack of it. They’re not opposites like everyone thinks; they’re complements. 

In her head, the gears begin to churn, the ones that will eventually spell out, _Run_.

 

+++

 

It started in junior high: a sleepless night, once in a blue moon -- a warning that she was too wound up or stressed. Frankly, it was welcomed; she wasn’t the type to admit to working too hard, so she took it as a wake-up call: a little reminder from God to take it easy, lest her entire body crank to a halt. 

In high school, it got worse. Two nights in a row and then she was dead on her feet. She gave antihistamines a shot but they made her groggy, and her family’s doctor didn’t feel right letting her loose on Valium, so she attacked it like she does anything: with confidence and ambition. 

But insomnia’s a dominatrix of quicksand proportions: the harder you fight it, the harder you lose. It goes against the laws of nature and the laws of Kristin’s very being, and that was the hardest part to reconcile.

Giving in and accepting the inevitable lessened some of the tension, and eventually it eased up on its own. College wasn’t too bad because despite the work, it wasn’t freakin’ high school, thank Jesus. It flared up during _Charlie Brown_ and quickly faded when she realized she had nothing to worry about, that the role and all its accolades were already in the bag. There were a few bad nights after it ended with Marc, until _Wicked_ started taking shape and she was too excited to dwell on him for long. But rehearsals bring their own chaos.

The bright side is, she’s always been able to hide it, and if they can’t see it, Kristin can almost convince herself she can’t either. 

She powers through three nights of hell before Idina looks her up and down and says, “What’s wrong?”

 

-

 

“I don’t really talk about it.” 

Kristin twirls the chow mein noodles around her fork, focusing on the hum of restaurant noise around them. It’s warm, the food’s good, and nobody pays them any attention. Outside the window, the street is uncharacteristically empty. She’s not sure how she missed the spot for so long, but that must’ve been precisely the point when Idina said “It’s quiet” and hailed them a cab. 

Idina shrugs, stabbing a piece of broccoli. “Maybe you should.” 

“Talking about it doesn’t help.” 

“What does help?” 

“Talking about… other things.” 

“You mean at night?” 

“Mm. Yeah. I used to call Denny but he’s so busy now, I hate to wake him up. He hardly sleeps as it is. No one else really knows. My doctor gave me this Ambien stuff but I haven’t tried it… I don’t want to risk being funky at the studio.”

Idina watches her, chewing quietly. “Call me, then.” 

Kristin smiles. “Thanks, but it’s okay.” 

She looks a little offended, and Kristin instantly regrets brushing her off. She just doesn’t want to be a bother. Insomnia’s not something people ever understand until they’ve lived it, and she’s not going to drag someone else into her dark, miserable nights if she can help it. Besides, their closeness is work-based; it’s not supposed to get personal. You keep your issues out of the show, that’s the rule. If they even _think_ you’re weak, you are. 

“I mean -- I appreciate she offer,” she amends, “but you need your sleep too.” 

Idina smiles, gathering her mass of hair away from her face and and draping it over one shoulder. The gesture blows a whiff of her shampoo across the table, and in her sleepy haze, Kristin sees the woman who auditioned a year ago. The look on her face at the callback, when Kristin sang with her and thought, _Yes._  

Idina leans in, looking her in the eye. “Call me. I’m serious. I don’t mind being woken up. Taye’s gone so much I get bored. And I’ve been told my ramblings can induce comas.”

“But I like your ramblings.” 

“You’ve only heard the ones specially designed to impress you,” Idina points out, raising an eyebrow for emphasis. “I am a seriously boring person, Kristin. Sometimes… I _knit_.” 

“Oh my god, I love knitting!” 

“Ugh, you’re making this hard.” 

Kristin watches her reach into her purse, digging around for a moment before extracting a pen. Before Kristin can process what’s happening, Idina reaches across the table for her hand, tugging it gently forward and scribbling a series of digits across her skin. It’s always weird enough to be written on, weirder still by a leftie, and it tickles. 

“There,” she says, capping the pen with a flourish.

“I already have your number, you dork.” 

“But now you have no excuse.” 

Kristin inspects her hand, still tingling with the sense memory of Idina’s sure grip, and bites back a grin. “Classy.”

Idina winks. “I’m a classy girl.”

 

-

 

Kristin flips on her bedside light. 

The ink has smudged a little, but it’s still legible. For her first time, she notices a smiley face in the zero.

 

-

 

“Hello?” 

Kristin draws in a breath. This was a mistake, but she can’t hang up now.

“Hi.” 

“Hey,” Idina says, her voice rough from sleep. “What’re ya wearing?”  
  
Kristin laughs softly. “Did I wake you?” 

“Mm, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I’m glad you called. I didn’t think you would.” 

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk.” 

“I want to. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.”

“Thanks.” 

Kristin fiddles with a loose thread in her bedspread, twisting it between her fingers, feeling uncharacteristically shy. 

“So what do you think about?” 

“What?”

“When you can’t sleep. There’s stuff, on your mind. Keeping you up.” 

“It used to just be… stuff. Thinking about what I had to do the next day, the stress, the projects, trying to remember everything. But after it got worse… I just started worrying about not sleeping, which, obviously…” 

“Made you not sleep even more.”

“Yeah.” 

“It’s a downward spiral.” 

“Yeah, it’s… that’s a perfect description.” 

“You’re gonna sleep, Kristin. You’ll shake this off. Your body’s gonna figure it out in the end, I think. You’ll learn to accept it and then you’ll be able to stop psyching yourself out. It’ll pass. And for what it’s worth, you’ve got nothing to worry about. The show’s on track and you’re brilliant.” 

“I… thanks.” 

She hears the rustle of bedding being shoved aside, and a brief silence. “You sound different at night.” 

“How?”

“Quiet. No bubbles. And your voice is lower.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Kristin responds deeply, dripping with sultry intonation. “Is that so?”

“Mm, and _sexy_.”

“Now we know the real reason you wanted me to call, missy.”

“Caught me. I should tell you about the time I wrote ‘Fuck You’ on my parents’ bedroom wall.” 

“Idina! How old were you?!” 

“Eight.” 

Kristin bursts out laughing. 

“Seriously, I was just this weird, awkward little tomboy who sang and cursed a lot.” 

“So nothing’s changed.” 

“Nope.”

Kristin smiles. “Why did you defile their wall?”

“Because they grounded me and I missed my last soccer game of the season and my team lost and everyone hated me. I don’t remember why I was grounded, I think I got into a really heated debate with the rabbi. They made me paint over it, but I just painted over the letters so you could still see a little when the light hit.” 

“Oh my god. Such an angry child!” 

“Kind of, yeah.” 

“How come?” 

“I dunno. My parents fought a lot. Nobody really _got_ me. And the kids who knew I could sing were jealous, or thought I was a giant nerd, so I just felt like this… anomaly.” 

“But look at you now.” 

Idina laughs softly. “I still feel like that sometimes.” 

“It’s okay. So do I.” 

After a pause, Idina says, “Do you wanna hear about my orgy at summer camp?” 

“What?! No! But obviously yes.” 

Idina’s low laugh rumbles through the phone. “I didn’t have an orgy at summer camp, Kristin.” 

“Well that’s not fair, now you owe me a story.” 

“Uh… another night. I gotta come up with something good.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

“Of course you do, you perv.” 

Kristin grins and turns to glance at the clock, then thinks better of it. Nothing good can come of it. She closes her eyes, sinking further into the pillows, and takes a breath.

“I think I’m gonna try to sleep now.” 

“Okay.” 

“Thanks for talking to me.” 

“Anytime.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Night, sweetie.” 

She flips the light off as the line goes dead. The silence rings in her ears, punctuated by the echo of Idina’s voice. It’s the first time she’s called her anything other than simply “Kristin.”

 

-

 

Joe eyes her critically. “You’re late.”

“First time for everything.” Kristin drops her bag unapologetically on the studio floor before she spots Idina close by, sitting cross-legged and framed by a fanned pile of heavily marked pages. “I overslept.” 

Idina looks up and smiles.

 

-

 

She doesn’t call that night. It would be inappropriate. She can’t rely on a patch; she’s got to face the issue head-on. 

The next morning, she hides dark circles under too much foundation and at the end of the day, finds a green Post-It with Idina’s phone number in her bag. She flips it over instinctively to see five words scribbled across the square in that unnaturally swooping left-handed scrawl: 

_I’ve got the orgy story._

Phone pressed to her ear hours later, she nearly laughs herself to sleep.

 

+++

 

“Do you need to get a room or should we try that again?” 

Two sets of eyes shoot toward Joe, and Idina snaps, “What?” 

Joe waves her off, narrowing his eyes on Kristin. “Too much strange exhilaration, not enough total detestation.” 

Kristin rolls her eyes. “It’s not either-or. She doesn’t hate her, she hates that she’s drawn to her.” 

“Whatever she hates, I’m not seeing it.” 

“Well, _look_ at her.” 

She flails an arm in Idina’s general direction before her gaze follows, just in time to see Idina duck her head, smiling, reliably unloathable, before she meets Kristin’s eyes.

“That’s why it’s called _acting_ , Miss Best Featured Actress.” 

Kristin gasps, slaps her on the arm and Idina grabs hold of her hand, pulling her close to tickle beneath her ribs. Kristin shrieks, squirming away and forgetting momentarily why the show is slowly making her insane, and Idina giggles. 

“Stop flirting with each other!” Michelle yells from the corner, spinning her chair in circles without even bothering to look up. 

“No, don’t,” Joe sighs. “Just _channel_ it.” 

 _Channel **this**_ , she thinks, but it’s not his words that echo.

 

+++

 

Choreography rehearsals leave them dizzy. The blocking’s too tight. People are tripping over each other. Wayne swears he made changes that only half the company remembers, and people start yelling. Kristin has an opinion, of course, but she’s too exhausted to voice it, slinking instead into the corner beside Idina.

“I’m so fucking tired and I'm barely doing anything,” Idina says over the noise. “How do people dance for a living?” 

“Painfully."

“I don’t remember La Vie Boheme being this rough. Maybe I’m getting old.” 

“Exactly how much energy did it take to drop your pants?”

“Hey! That was _art_ , Chenoweth. _And_ I danced on a table.” 

Kristin grins, not trusting herself to argue. “Don’t worry, I won’t call tonight.” 

“No no, it’s fine. I still sleep enough.” 

“But you could sleep better.” 

“Talking to you makes me sleep better.” 

Kristin looks over to see twinkling eyes and a weary smile, just for her in the sea of madness.

 

-

 

“You don’t have to talk. Can you just keep the phone on?” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.”

 

-

 

When Kristin wakes up, it’s morning, proper morning with sunlight, and a tinny sound of running water is streaming loudly through her phone.

She lifts it from her pillow. “...Hello?” 

The water continues for another minute and cuts off, followed by vague shuffling noises.

“Hello?” she tries again.

“Kris?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. Sorry, I was in the shower.” 

“Did you… was your phone on all night?”

“Yeah. Of course.” 

“You never hung up.”

“You asked me.”

Kristin blinks, focusing on a framed print along her wall. Her heart thumps awake, building an odd, heavy rhythm against its walls.

“Thanks,” she says. 

“Did you sleep?” 

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you there, okay?” 

The print on the wall begins to blur as the pieces come together in her head, creeping over her like flames and trapping her in the fire as her mind lifts a warning from the ashes. It’s what she’s told herself for years; it’s how she stays strong -- only now, it sounds more like a warning than a fact: 

_You don’t need anyone._

 

+++

 

He shows up with sandwiches the night they’re working late, surprising Idina, who is instantly revived from the day’s stupor. He shakes Kristin’s hand, flashing a brilliant smile, says, “Dee tells me you’re amazing, I can’t wait to see the show,” and Kristin instinctively blushes.

She accepts a sandwich graciously and watches them huddle together in a corner of the studio, quiet talk interspersed with laughter; his low and rumbling; Idina’s loud and uneven. She smiles at them, but it pulls at the corners of her mouth like it doesn’t really want to be there. 

It’s only a thought that begins bubbling toward the surface -- not even a fully formed thought, defined in words or anything. It’s an emotion that, if translated, might be labeled jealousy. It makes sense. He’s a gorgeous man, funny, successful, charming, and apparently marriage material. Idina’s lucky. It would be crazy not to be a little jealous.

She watches them from across the room, sharing soda from the same cup. She watches him feed her a chip; Idina pretends to bite his finger, then giggles. She watches his hand on her waist, dark skin sliding over purple fabric, and everything changes.

In an instant, unbidden, her mind’s eye supplies her own hand in its place -- smaller, paler, but spread out over the same purple, tugging her close. It’s only a flash, not even a complete image. A microsecond that burns into her eyes.

She gives herself a quick check-up: the jealousy’s still present, she can feel it fervid and unwanted in her chest -- but it seems to be, for lack of a better word... misdirected. 

Maybe this is what happens when you finally let someone in after pushing so many away: your psyche forgets how to classify them. 

Kristin looks between them, finally settling on Idina. Her focus narrows, studying the smile on Idina’s lips and in her eyes, the way she bats playfully at his arm, leans in to peck his cheek, and Kristin’s traitorous mind once again imposes herself into his place. 

Her insides launch into a series of backflips. Against better judgment, she lets her eyes stray once more to Idina’s face, only to see someone she’s never met.

She needs no further assessment to realize the stranger isn’t the woman across the room.

 

+++

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Less talking might be a good start.”_

_______________

  


**_1999_ **

 

 _Anthony tackles Idina before she’s made it through the door, then piggybacks her across the room to where Kristin’s standing. She is vibrant in a shimmering, clingy top with a low-cut V, dark curls slick and tucked behind her ears._  

 _"Kristin…” he announces, breathless as he sets Idina on her feet, “this is my female life partner, Idina Menzel. Dee, this is -- "_  

 _"Kristin. Hi. You were hilarious." She shakes Kristin’s hand, smiling broadly, and Kristin catches the scent of something sensational. "It's so nice to meet you."_  

 _"Me?! Are you kidding? I saw your last show in_ Rent _, you were incredible."_  

 _“Really? Thank you!"_  

 _"Made me question the whole straight thing a little.”_  

_"That's all I ever wanted."_  
  
_“It’s okay,” Anthony says, “she makes me question the whole gay thing a little, too.”_

_“You couldn’t handle me.” Idina grins deviously and pecks him on the lips._

_"Look at this nonsense.” He smiles, lifting a hand to each of their faces. "If you guys combined your cheekbones you could take over the world."_  

_They both laugh, and Kristin, who will later blame the opening night champagne, brings a hand up to Idina’s jaw without thinking, tracing the outline._

_"He may have a point. These could seriously cut."_  

 _"Yeah, it's really been an issue at airport security," she deadpans, wide-eyed, then bursts into what Kristin could only describe as a cackle._  

 _Kristin giggles and Anthony drops his face into his palms with as much drama as he can muster._  

 _"This is why I don't take you places."_  

 _He pulls her away with Idina still laughing before Kristin calls after them, "It was nice to meet you too!"_  

_Idina turns around, twisting in Anthony’s arms to meet her eye, and winks._

 

+++

 

She’s beautiful. Kristin notices from the start; you can’t not. Not that she hasn’t seen her share of beautiful women in this line of work, and Idina’s not even the prettiest, but there’s something about her that’s breathtaking. Maybe it’s the sum of somethings. The million-dollar smile, the angles of her face, her ridiculously unsexy laugh. But beyond the physical -- her passion. Her dedication (slightly more balanced than Kristin’s obsession) to the work. Her alternating lack and surplus of ego -- like Kristin’s, though Idina’s scale tends to be tipped a lot more towards lack. The way she stutters when she’s nervous. Her voice, not just singing but speaking -- breathy, sensual, until she gets excited or pissed off and it morphs brilliantly into brazen Jewish New Yorker -- even her accent comes out if she’s tired enough. ( _What’s ‘cwauffee?’_ Kristin teases, earning a pinch on the arm.) 

It could’ve stopped there. If it were anyone else, it might’ve. 

The shift is both miniscule and monumental -- like the breaking of a dam. It begins with almost nothing, but almost nothing is all it takes. 

It comes as half shock, and half relief. Suddenly, every time she’s ever admired a female friend -- the curve of a breast; the slope of a bare leg; the lilting light of a beautiful smile -- every second glance now conspires into an unwanted epiphany: the question of whether it was ever simple admiration or envy at all. 

Every memory betrays her to paranoia. Every friend she pushed away for reasons she never fully understood, or reasons she made up -- they were too clingy; _she_ was too clingy; they were gossips, they were fake, they were disloyal, they were just using her. Sometimes, it was true. Sometimes it wasn’t. 

The pattern was simple: the need to recoil at the first hint of intimacy; the first suspicion that they were safe to trust. 

It’s nothing short of terrifying, the day she walks into the studio and realizes a year is a long time and she might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack if she’s trying to figure out when it happened -- when _I want to play with her hair_ became _I want to tangle my fingers in it and tug until she gasps._ When _I wish I had her ass_ became _I want to feel it under my palm_ ; when _She has beautiful skin_ became _I want to touch every inch._  

To her surprise it’s not repulsion, but anger that hits first. 

 _Why?_ she demands of God. 

Why Idina? 

Why a _woman_? 

Sweet Lord, why a _married_ woman?! 

Why now, or ever? In the middle of a multi-million dollar spectacle that they’re supposed to carry between the two of them -- together, as one. A team. A team Kristin can’t break, can’t cut off, can’t escape.

The only option is to escape herself.

 

+++

 

Kristin tries to stick to mixed drinks. If they can hide the alcohol, she can hide the effects. 

Michelle buys shots. 

Six weeks to the West Coast, they’re finalizing vocals and everyone’s antsy. There’s not enough movement, voices are shot, and everyone’s sick of abstinence. The body can only take so much tea and honey before it screams for something warmer. 

Kristin wasn’t counting on quite this warm. 

She flirts with a guy at the bar for awhile, effected giggles and overexaggerated inflection, just the standby second-nature performance. It takes less time than usual to get weary of pretending he’s funnier than he is, and she’s almost relieved when his wife-girlfriend-something appears at his side, none too thrilled. He offers Kristin a genuinely apologetic look, mouths _Sorry_ and disappears. 

The club is nice, and considering the array of madhouses Michelle could’ve led them to, Kristin appreciates that much. The patrons are classy, the drinks are objets d’art, the music -- is French electro swing a genre? -- hovers somewhere between vintage and liquefied sex. 

And Idina’s pants are far, far too tight. 

Kristin lets herself look. She’s come to terms with whatever bi-curious nonsense God has thrown into her path, prepared to ride it out until it runs its course, fizzles as quick as it came. 

 _Just a phase,_ her mom would tell her every time another OCU theater kid came out. _They’ll figure out what they’re missing eventually._  

Kristin knows they didn’t -- but that was different. They’d known from the start; this is just some mid-thirties crisis. Granted, she’d rather it be an eighteen-year-old boy or a Porsche, but you don’t really get a say in these things. 

Michelle plants herself on Norbert’s lap with all the subtlety of a stampede and Kristin is left to watch Eden grind up on Idina like they’re at a Pride after-party (and she would know). Eden’s never been subtle, but she’s harmless, and even though they’re more like sisters than anything else, Kristin can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. They connect in a way Kristin could never connect with Idina; being married to the same character has that effect, or so she’s been told. Her standbys have always been so intimidated by her it’s never really gone past formalities. It’s not her intent, but it’s never really bothered her. She’s not in this business to make friends. 

Watching them, though… it ignites something; a vague, dull ache that might be longing if she looks too closely. Idina’s hands gliding over Eden’s hips, her head thrown back in laughter as Eden spins around and grabs her ass. Knowing it doesn’t mean anything to them beyond friendship makes Kristin yearn to go back in time, before Idina ever became… more. Before she sat here pathetically imagining herself in Eden’s place. 

The music shifts and Idina’s sauntering back across the dance floor to their table, eyes on Kristin with a mischievous glint. Her hips sway in a slow, hypnotic outline under the colored lights. She’s not like this at work, obviously, and it’s easy to forget this side of her even exists.

She extends a finger toward Kristin, raising an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth. Kristin smiles, shaking her head, but Idina nods firmly. 

“You,” she says. 

Kristin can feel the tequila still fresh on her tongue, and she can see in Idina’s eyes that Michelle’s last round didn’t miss her, either.

“I don’t club dance,” Kristin lies over the noise. 

Idina slides boldly onto her lap, balancing herself on Kristin’s small thighs, and grins. “You do now.”

She hops off, slipping her hand into Kristin’s. Eden gives them a whoop of approval before collapsing in Kristin’s seat as Idina drags her away, entwining their fingers, and suddenly the room is spinning.

There’s no real beginning to it, the sync of their bodies, the movement. It must be some residual connection from the show, the first place they learned to read each other’s physicality. They don’t fall into rhythm; they create it.

Idina’s hands are on Kristin’s hips and her own hands find their way up to Idina’s shoulders, looping loosely around her neck as their bodies sway together. Unsatisfied, Idina tugs her closer until they’re practically flush, offering a challenging smile. 

Kristin can play this game. Oh, she can play -- and she can win. But right now she doesn’t trust herself to remember the rules. 

She tries to breathe, tries to find somewhere to look without looking away like a coward, but the only options are Idina’s chest, lips, or eyes -- each more intimidating than the last.

Feeling clever, she circles a finger gently over the soft, bare skin at the back of Idina’s neck until Idina’s eyes flutter shut, giving Kristin the upper hand. She turns suddenly in Idina’s arms, her ass fitting snugly against Idina’s front. The movement’s so smooth that Idina’s hands are already back on her hips, having scarcely moved -- but instead of the loose curve her fingers held before, Kristin now feels them pressing into the thin fabric of her skirt.

They’ve been this close for the show, they hug and hold and embrace as Ozian witches, and neither is conservative with physical affection offstage, either -- but here and now under dim, liquid lights with a beat pounding in their ears, feels like the first time Idina’s ever touched her. 

She places her hands over Idina’s, presses her hips back a little, and Idina’s fingers tighten. Suddenly dizzy, Kristin lets her head tip back against Idina’s chest, dropping to the side, and feels the other woman’s heart pounding against her cheek. 

Daring to open her eyes, she catches sight of the others at the table, mouths slightly ajar in amusement. Norbert’s head is cocked sideways like an owl, eyes glazed over, and Kristin can’t help but smile. 

She stretches one arm back to wrap her fingers around Idina’s neck, guiding her head down until Kristin is close enough to whisper, “They’re watching us.” 

She feels Idina smile against her cheek. “Sweetie, they’re watching _you_.” 

Kristin instantly stiffens, falling out of the rhythm, but Idina’s there to guide her back, her lips soft and hot at Kristin’s ear. 

“Come with me."

 

-

 

“Where are we going?” 

Idina weaves them through the eleven o’clock theater crowds, leads them across an intersection. A cab takes a sharp turn just as they step onto the curb, not close but close enough, and Idina’s arm comes up automatically around Kristin’s shoulders, pulling her out of the way. She seems to have sobered up considerably since they left, but Kristin’s still feeling wobbly. The city lights appear to come at her all at once and then fade from focus. 

“My apartment’s a block over. I’ve got Haagen Dazs." 

"We’re going to your apartment?" 

Idina gives her a weak shove. "I thought maybe, I mean, we've never hung out, just the two of us, you know? I figured we can talk about boys and eat ice cream. Plus I hate clubs.” 

Kristin shoves back, grinning. “Didn’t seem like you hated it.” 

“I like dancing.” 

“I could see that.” 

Idina smiles at the ground.

 

-

 

“Sorry, I wasn’t prepared,” Idina confesses as she fumbles for a light switch, kicking stray shoes out of the way and sweeping a pile of junk mail off an accent table before heading to the kitchen. “Taye’s usually the one who cleans, believe it or not. But make yourself comfortable.” 

Kristin touches the edge of a photograph of Idina and two Idina lookalikes who must be her mom and sister. She glances around but feels strange stepping unexpectedly into Idina’s space. No matter how much you try to avoid it, you always see someone differently after you’ve seen where they live, for better or worse. The space is a bit cluttered, but in the way that makes you feel at home; open and elegant with tall, sweeping windows and an older, upright piano tucked into a corner. It’s warm, everything on the wall is interesting, the sofa looks like a cloud, and it all smells like Idina: soft, fragrant, and sweet. 

“When’s he coming back?” 

“Two weeks… I think? Sometime before we leave for tryouts, anyway. Pistachio or rocky road?”

 

-

 

With ice cream cartons and spoons shoved into a tote bag, Idina takes her to the rooftop where they toss a blanket to the floor and sit back against oversized pots of parsley and mint. An open greenhouse roof shields most of the garden, but from where they sit, they can see the whole sky and half the city. 

“Told you it was better up here.” Idina smiles, handing her a spoon and a carton. 

Kristin smiles, digging into her carton. If the sky were clear she’d be feeling a little spiritual, but the murky film of Manhattan smog doesn’t leave much room for stargazing, and with Idina’s shoulder pressed lightly against hers, her focus is already narrowing.

“I still miss the stars.” 

“Yeah, we don’t get a lot of those here. If you go upstate, though, it clears up. My dad used to take us camping. There’s an awesome lake, I forget the name.”  
  
“Yeah? We should go.” 

“Okay. Tomorrow.” 

Kristin nudges her, reaching over to steal a spoonful of pistacchio. “I love your artwork.” 

“In the apartment? Thanks. It’s mostly friends’ stuff. Or stuff fans gave me during _Rent_.” 

“I don't think I have fans the way you do. The cult following.” 

“If you don't yet, you're about to.” 

“Maybe, if they don't fire our asses first.” 

“They're not gonna fire _you_.” 

“They're not gonna fire you either, do you still worry about that?” 

“Are you kidding, I can't go like, one fucking day without missing a note.”

“Big deal,” Kristin huffs, her spoon hovering mid-air.  “You only miss anything because you're so wrapped up in the character. The emotion.” 

“So are you, and you never miss anything.” 

Kristin shrugs. “I miss other things.” Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of an eyeroll. “You're really insecure about this, aren't you?” 

“Oh, Kristi… if you only knew the vast cavern of my insecurities.”

Idina smiles, dipping over into the carton wedged between Kristin’s knees. Kristin bats at her hand. 

“You called me Kristi.” 

“Sometimes you feel more like you.” 

“I didn't know you knew.” 

“Anthony calls you Kristi when I talk to him.” 

“Is your name really Idina?”

“Yeah, but I changed my last name.” 

“Really? From what?” 

“Mentzel. With a T. No one could pronounce it.”

“Honey, no one can pronounce _Eye-dina_ either.” 

“Ugh!” 

Idina stretches her legs out and crosses her ankles, dropping her head back against the edge of a pot, and Kristin giggles. She mirrors the position, resting her head back and turning to her right to find Idina’s head inclined just the same, grinning. 

Kristin nudges her with her foot. “We barely know anything about each other.”

“Hence why I brought you here!” 

Kristin shoots up an eyebrow. “To your rooftop… in the middle of the night… in springtime… for ice cream.” 

“Uh…” 

Idina reaches over, digging into the bag, and extracts a bottle of Merlot. 

“And wine?! Oh my god.” 

“It does reek of courtship, doesn’t it? Sorry about that.” 

“Sweetheart, courtship is when you come callin’ at my house and tell my daddy all about your intentions. _This_ is seduction.”

“It was an accident!” 

“‘Whoops, I accidentally seduced you’?” 

“ _Excuse me_ , I am a married woman,” Idina counters, twisting the corkscrew into the bottle. “Who just happens to like wine.”

Kristin takes a breath in the silence as the cork is wrestled free. She can play as long as she needs to; the queasy, pounding rhythm of her heartbeat is nothing she’s never felt before. She’s performed through worse. Maybe she’s never performed drunk, but she’d sooner die than shrink from a challenge.

“All right, married woman,” she says as Idina offers her the first swig. “What do you wanna know about me?”

“How personal should I get?”

“Ooh, you’re for real.” She hands the bottle back, rubbing her hands together for warmth as the liquid slides down her throat. “No rules, go.” 

She watches Idina think before lifting the glass neck of the bottle to her lips, tipping her head back and taking a sip.

“Okay. How old were you when -- “

“Oh my god, not that one. Sixteen. Be original.” 

Idina gives her a slow, sideways look. “I was _going_ to ask when did you start singing. Filthy woman.”

Kristin smiles. “I can’t remember ever not singing. But performing, that’d be church. Can't remember exactly when." 

“Fair enough. Your turn.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“I… don’t know. I believe in… something. Something bigger than us. I mean, you kind of have to, to avoid getting swallowed into a black hole of nihilistic despair, y’know?”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Have you ever met your biological parents?”

“Nah.” Kristin takes another drink, feeling the fuzziness from the club quickly seeping back in. “I don’t even know their names. I could find them, I guess, but. It’s weird. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for it.” 

“I don’t know if I would either.” 

Somewhere from below, a few notes spring forth from an acoustic guitar, soft and dreamlike.

“Oh, it’s Johnny.” Idina smiles. 

“Who?” 

“My neighbor. He’s in a band.” 

“He’s really good.” 

“I know. He’s about to go on tour.” 

“What’s the craziest thing you did in college?” 

“Oh, shit. I don’t even know, I did a striptease at a frat house once. But I was pretty good in school.”

“Boring!” 

“Fine, let’s hear _your_ college shenanigans.” 

“Even worse.” 

“Ever had a threesome?” 

Kristin chokes on the wine a little, passing it back for safekeeping. “No. That part of my life has not been particularly eventful.”

“They’re overrated. Then again, it was two guys, and I think they were more into each other.”

Kristin giggles, and the words are out before she can reconsider.

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

Idina doesn’t react, but she smiles at the sky, passing the bottle back slowly. “Define 'been with'.”

“Uh... sex?”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “No.” 

“So you've done things that aren't sex? Not counting _Rent._ ” 

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” 

Idina laughs, a bit of a cackle, and stares her down. “Isn’t it my turn now?”

“No, I wanna know!” 

“Oh my god! I don't know... kissing, a little bit of second base… y’know.” 

“Oh.”

“Satisfied?”

The bottle comes up automatically, and Kristin takes a large gulp before Idina snatches it back. “What's it like?” 

Idina looks away, off into the distance, a little smile playing on her lips. 

“It's... nice. It's soft. It's... surreal. The whole mirror thing. It's a different level of intimacy. It's... it's really hot, actually.”

Kristin wills herself to take even breaths, to stay sober even if she’s a half dozen gulps from it.

“Show me.” 

“What?!” Idina’s head whips around. “No!”

“Why not?”

“Because!” 

“I’m not your type?”

Idina throws her head back and laughs. “I don’t have a _type_!”

“You don’t find me attractive.”

Idina shoots her a look, rolling her eyes. 

“Then why not?”

“Because it’s weird.” 

“Aw, it’s just one lousy kiss.” 

“Uh, my kisses are _not_ lousy, I assure you.” 

Kristin smiles. “Come on. It’s just me.”

“It’s not ‘just you.’ You’re -- we work together.” 

“So did you and Taye, you kissed him.” 

“And look how that turned out!”

“What, you afraid you’ll fall in looove with me?” 

Idina’s smile freezes for a second before fading into a sigh. “Stop.”

Kristin sets the bottle down between them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be weird. I was just curious.”

“Ask Michelle, she’ll kiss anyone.” 

“...Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

She watches Idina’s fingers close around the neck of the bottle, then flex, dropping away. This was a mistake. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but somewhere along the way she fucked it up. 

“I just -- “ Idina says suddenly, turning to face her. “I don’t want to be your toy, you know? I don’t -- I don’t want you being the representation of yourself you give to everyone else to get a reaction... or a result, or… it has to be -- you. Just you. Okay?” 

Kristin looks at her carefully, hearing the seconds tick by in her head and trying to determine if she’s just been called out or if it was an accident. 

“I didn’t -- “ she starts. “I’m not -- ” 

She knows there’s no point denying. Idina watches her, searching her face. Kristin wonders what she’s seeing -- if it’s the same thing Kristin would see if she looked in the mirror. 

Kristin takes a deep breath. “I’m here.” 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“Do you still… want…” 

Kristin nods.

“Okay.” 

It happens fast, or Kristin’s slowing down. She’s not exactly drunk but there’s something else at work now, something that feels like nerves but lighter, leaving her with a weird sensation of floating, maybe sinking, maybe both. She watches Idina shift toward her, take a breath, lick her lips and start to inch forward before she ducks her head and smiles. 

“It’s been awhile.”

Kristin smiles. “It’s okay.” 

“Hey, if I’m the only woman you ever kiss, I gotta make it good.” 

“Less talking might be a good start.” 

Idina narrows her eyes, challenge accepted. She reaches up, cupping Kristin’s face with one hand and supporting herself with the other. Her confidence needs no boost here, and some other part of Kristin’s brain wonders if she’ll ever see this kind of surety from her on stage. But then Idina’s leaning in, pausing just inches away to look into her eyes one last time, just to check. Maybe she’s hoping Kristin will meet her halfway, but Kristin isn’t sure her body remembers how to move. 

There’s a half inch left, then their eyes are closed and all Kristin can feel is heat. 

It’s deliberate enough to be what it is -- a demonstration -- and Idina knows what she’s doing well enough that Kristin wouldn’t have to respond much to get the general idea. But not responding feels both impolite and impossible, and with the way Idina’s mouth goes completely pliant against her, all Kristin can do is melt into it. 

She can feel Idina react when Kristin just barely presses forward, letting herself sink into the rhythm. She can feel Idina tense, then soften, her lips parting just enough for Kristin to do with them as she pleases. Kristin lets herself explore, just a little, moving with her but letting Idina take the reins. Her head is spinning, her heart pounding, but her body does, in fact, know what to do, and that -- oddly enough -- surprises her the most. Her body isn’t supposed to know what to do with another woman. 

Idina was right -- it’s soft. Not just the skin, but her breath and her movements, working together to pull Kristin into it until she feels her own hand come up to rest over Idina’s on her cheek. Seeking an anchor, her other hand blindly fumbles around until it comes to land on Idina’s shoulder. She lets it slide up, curling around Idina’s neck before she realizes she’s pulling her forward. 

She hears a tiny noise, maybe a warning, before Idina’s mouth opens against hers, and then there’s a gentle, white-hot swipe of tongue over her top lip. She has a pleasant, fleeting thought that Idina tastes like ice cream before she realizes she’s already opened her mouth, inviting her in, and their tongues have taken over. 

 _Too much_ is her first thought, followed immediately by _not enough_. 

She’s not too far gone to realize something has shifted -- that Idina’s not just kissing her anymore, but she’s kissing Idina -- that, actually, they’re making out, on a rooftop in April, with music floating up from the floor below. 

This is what she wanted. She wanted to see. She wanted to know. She wanted this so she could let it go, move on and be done with it. 

When they finally separate, her eyes open in stages, blinking a few times before coaxing her back to reality. She feels a heartbeat, fast and rough, but it’s not her own. Her hand has slid from Idina’s neck to her chest, just over her heart. Three inches lower and she’d be holding her breast. 

Idina’s hand is still on her cheek, with Kristin’s cupped over it. Neither of them makes any move to shift away and salvage this before some weird awkwardness springs up, lodges itself between them and kills the entire show.

Kristin can’t bring herself to look away. Something in Idina’s face has changed.

She looks the way Kristin feels.

Already, Kristin knows with absolute clarity that this is not what was meant to happen, and there’s no sense in denying it.

Her curiosity isn’t quenched; it’s piqued. She wants to kiss her again. She wants to kiss her harder. She wants to kiss her _everywhere_. 

Inside, panic starts to bubble under the surface. 

“We should get back inside.” 

Kristin barely recognizes the wrecked, whispered voice as her own. She’s not even sure if Idina heard it. Neither of them looks away. Neither moves. Idina studies her for another moment, like she’s making a decision, before she slowly, slowly starts to lean back in. 

Everything shatters at once. Kristin’s hands pull back and she’s shifting away, uselessly straightening the blanket around her. The sudden loss of contact is jarring, but she busies herself collecting items around them and setting them carefully back in the bag. She waits for Idina to catch up, avoiding eye contact, and pulls herself to her feet. A little shaky, Idina follows as Kristin heads back inside, opting for the stairwell instead of the elevator. She can feel Idina’s eyes on her the whole time, and Kristin knows she owes it to her to be a fucking adult and face this, but something’s telling her she can’t. 

Idina closes the door carefully behind them, turning to Kristin in the middle of the living room. 

“I should probably call a cab.” 

“Don’t be crazy,” Idina waves her off, her voice close enough normal. “You can crash here.” 

Kristin doesn’t exactly trust herself with that arrangement, but the thought of heading back out this late is less than appealing. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, of course. My bed’s huge. Or -- “ There’s silence. “I can sleep out here, you can have the bed.” 

“No, no, I’m fine out here.” 

Idina smiles, a little wearily. “That would make me a terrible hostess.” 

“I’m fine. Really.” Kristin smiles back, plopping down on the couch. “Your sofa’s amazing.” 

She can sense Idina hesitating, but she finally disappears down the hall and reappears with two blankets, a pillow, and sleep clothes.  
  
“If you want to change, those should fit. That first door’s the bathroom, I’ve got my own so it’s all yours.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Just… come get me if you need anything.” 

They stare at each other for a minute, somehow no less intense in the dark.  
  
“Hey, um,” Idina starts. “Look, I’m sorry if…” 

“I had fun tonight. Thanks.” Kristin offers up her most casual, disarming smile. It’s gotten her this far in life. 

Idina blinks a couple times as though trying to clear something out of her head. 

“Me too,” she says. “Night, Kris.” 

As Kristin sinks into the sofa cushions, she reaches onto the floor, grabbing her blouse and tucking it underneath her head over the pillow. Tear streaks aren't easy to explain.

 

-

 

Kristin smells coffee when she wakes up. For a brief, bizarre moment, she thinks she’s back in Marc’s apartment. She usually woke up alone but at least she got gourmet roast out of it.

She sits up, peering across to the kitchen where Idina has one pajama-clad hip cocked to the side, pressed against the counter. She’s staring at the coffee machine with intent, brow furrowed, biting her nails. Pale, toned legs stretch to the floor beneath her drawstring shorts, and an oversized t-shirt falls loosely off one shoulder, exposing elegant collarbones that Kristin shouldn’t remember touching. 

Idina spots her, suddenly. “Shit, sorry. I was trying to be quiet.” 

“It’s fine. I slept plenty.” 

“Oh, good.”

Kristin climbs off the couch and makes her way to the kitchen. “Sorry if I passed out on you.” 

Idina stares at her, blankly, before offering a smile. “No worries.”

“I didn’t do anything weird, did I? I don’t really remember much after we left the club. God, I sound like I’m nineteen.”  
  
She doesn’t make the decision; the decision makes itself for her, spinning the lie to fruition before she’s fully awake. 

Idina’s still staring at her, but she looks away quickly, busying herself with mugs and sugar.  
  
“Really? You didn’t seem that drunk.” 

“Well, that’s comforting. I’m a horrible lightweight, it just doesn’t hit till later.” She props herself against the counter, tracing her index finger around the marbled edge. “Probably shoulda warned you.” 

Idina reaches into the fridge, pushing items around. “You don’t remember anything here?”

“I don’t think so. Oh god, should I?” 

Idina turns around with a carton of half-n-half in her hand, fridge door still ajar. Their eyes lock. Kristin can’t look away now; now’s her chance to solidify it. She doesn’t need Idina to believe it. She just needs her to accept it. 

Idina smiles, oddly. It doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“No,” she says. “We ate some ice cream, talked for awhile and then you passed out.” 

Kristin watches her finish, pouring and stirring. Idina lifts up a mug to take an experimental sip, blowing lightly on the edge. A second mug is sitting on the counter, waiting to be sugared and creamed. Kristin picks it up, not bothering, and breathes it in, staring at the thin film of smoke rising from the dark. 

“I remember the ice cream was really good.” 

Between them, high up along the vaulted incline of the wall, a clock ticks off the seconds, each louder than the last. 

“Yeah,” Idina says softly. “Yeah, it was.”

  
  
+++

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s not the truth, but at least it’s not a lie._

_______________

  


Kristin’s never tried to run from someone she was working with, so the territory is new. It’s unfamiliar. And it fails spectacularly. 

She doesn’t recognize it at first. When she starts to pull away, it’s self-preservation and self-loathing in one, tragically misdirected.

When she does recognize it, it’s too late. She’s already cracked the glass. One day they’ll fight over what to say in the interviews but end up with the same answer. _We have different processes._  

It’s not the truth, but at least it’s not a lie.

 

-

 

They don't talk until they're back in the studio two days later. It gives them plenty of time to remember nothing can change, not here. 

"You haven't called,” Idina says. 

"I've been sleeping better." 

Idina looks her up and down. "No you haven't."

 

-

 

Insecurity, for Kristin, is pointless. You don’t have to be the best, but you have to own everything that you are. It’s frustrating when someone doesn’t, because she can’t relate. 

She learns this: when Idina’s upset, she isn’t shy to raise her voice. No one can come out of a family of yellers completely unaffected. But when she’s truly wounded, she shuts down. Real pain triggers the self-esteem meter and it shoots to zero, leaving just a shell. 

Kristin takes precaution. She can push Idina away, rile her up and piss her off, but if she ever drives her to silence, she’ll have gone too far.

 

-

 

“I’m not having this conversation again.” 

Kristin presses a hand to her forehead. Joe’s voice is starting to trigger migraines. 

“If you would just -- “

“You don’t own this character, Kristin. Universal does. Maguire does. But you don’t. So you’re gonna have to step out of your comfort zone and actually take direction on this one.” 

Idina takes a step forward. “Lay off her. Seriously, it’s fine this way.” 

“I don’t need you to defend me,” Kristin snaps. 

Idina looks at her, her eyes clouded. Something sick twists in Kristin’s stomach. She hears the words, but she can’t believe they came from her.

After a moment, Idina steps back, looking away. Outside of character, she doesn’t look at Kristin the rest of the day. 

It gets easier after that.

 

-

 

Idina throws her notes to the floor, pages scattering. 

“If you keep changing your lines, how am I supposed to remember mine?” 

Kristin shrugs innocently, splaying her arms and dropping them back to her side. “I’m just improvising. The show’s supposed to evolve, remember? We have the freedom to make it better, so --” 

“So _you’re_ making it better, and I’m…?”

“Idina, stop. That’s not fair.” 

“We’re supposed to make _each other_ better. We’re the fucking leads.” 

“I can’t _make_ you better!” 

Idina blinks. “Right. Thanks.” 

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” 

“No! I’m not gonna downplay mine so you can stand out. That’s _your_ job.” 

Idina laughs, humorless. “How am I supposed to stand out if you’re trying to upstage me?” 

“I’m not _trying_ , you’re letting me!” 

Idina is silent. 

Across the room, Joe rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and leaves them there, sinking further into his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Fine,” Idina says softly, then louder, “ _fine_. How about you play both parts and we just make this the fucking Kristin Chenoweth show? ‘Cause that worked out _so well_ for you last time.” 

Kristin stares at her. She can see the regret in Idina’s eyes, instantly, but shielded safely by anger. 

It wasn’t supposed to go this far. She’s going for distance, not hostility, but she never considered how easily the first might snowball into the second. 

“Enough,” Joe says. “This is bullshit. I cast you both for a reason, and right now I don’t fucking know what that reason was, so I want you to look each other in the eye and tell me each other’s biggest strength, and biggest weakness. Then maybe I’ll remember.” 

They both look at him, appalled.

“This is non-negotiable, by the way.”

Kristin closes her eyes. This business is a fucking circus.

“Eyes open,” Joe reminds her. “Like grownups.” 

Kristin takes the bait, turning to face her. She’s more pissed at Joe now than Idina, but maybe that was the point. 

She takes a breath. She doesn’t have to think about it. 

“You’re passionate,” she says quietly. “You’re incredibly sensitive. You make it… personal. And that makes you rattled. It makes you inconsistent. But it also makes you… very, very real.” 

The room is dead quiet. She can feel Joe’s eyes on them. Idina’s face stays guarded, but something has softened. 

“That’s your strength, _and_ your weakness. You let yourself into the role.” 

“I know,” Idina says softly. “And yours are… you don’t.” 

Kristin can’t look away. She sees the woman she saw on the rooftop, open and vulnerable, and something inside breaks.

“Right,” Joe says dully. “Surprise, neither of you could do each other’s job. Neither of you is going to be exactly what the other one wants you to be. So put on your big girl panties, learn how to deal with it and _please_ get the fuck out of my face until you do.”

Kristin spins on her heel and storms out.

 

-

 

She hears the door open, gently and quietly enough to know who it is without turning around. Kristin stares out the old, loft-style windows at worn brick and rusted fire escapes. It’s not the best view, but it’s her favorite room in the building. Wide open, empty, save for a collection of scattered props and banquet chairs covered in plastic. It’s not part of their assigned space, but it’s always unlocked. 

“We all know you’re better than me,” Idina says. “You don’t have to show off.”

Kristin turns around. “What?” 

“I’m trying, I swear, I’m doing my best -- “ 

“Idina --

“-- And I’m sorry it’s not enough for you but I don’t know what you want.” 

She meets Idina’s eyes, and wonders, for a moment, if they’re still talking about the show. 

“I think,” Kristin says slowly, “you’ve got it wrong.” 

Idina stares at her. She looks tired. She looks out of it. Or maybe Kristin’s projecting.

“Everyone loves you,” Kristin says, “in a way they’ll never love me." 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m good, I know. They know it. But they see it through a lens -- they see funny. They see cute, they see blonde, they see tits -- they see talent, yeah, but it’s like -- like everything I am, can be exploited. With you… they want to protect you. Nurture you. You -- ” She laughs, realizing none of it makes any sense. “I could never be Elphaba. They wouldn’t have even let me try.” 

“What -- as if I could be Glinda?!” 

“You were Amneris. That’s almost the same.” 

“It’s really not.”

Kristin makes a disgruntled noise, swiping at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. 

“Did -- did you want my part?” Idina asks, sounding suddenly very small.

“No. No, I just...”

“You could’ve done it. I honestly don’t think there’s anything you couldn’t do, given the chance.” 

“That’s the catch, though, isn’t it?” 

“Kris -- people treat us differently because we're different people. Really different. You're reading too much into it. Yeah, at the end of the day we're here to work and they want something from us, but no one here's trying to exploit you. If anyone's protective of me it's because I wear my fucking heart on my sleeve. You've seen it.” She laughs, embarrassed. “You've seen how I…”

"I think you're amazing." 

Idina stares at her, blinking in disbelief. 

“Kristin, I'm sorry if I've made you feel…” 

“I'm trying to give you compliments and you apologize. Typical.”

Kristin sniffles pathetically, and they share a smile.

“Thank you,” Idina says. 

“I'm not used to sharing the spotlight with another woman. I was supposed to be supporting, and that was fine, but it turned into this and now it’s my instinct to… just…”

“I know.” 

“We want the same things. I forget.”

“I know.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“It's okay.” 

“I know you probably think I’m full of shit. Confidence is easy to fake.” 

“I don’t think you’re full of shit. You’ve got layers. Some are thicker than others.” 

“Some are impenetrable.” 

Their eyes meet. Kristin hopes it comes as a warning.

“I figured.” Idina looks down at her hands. “I’ve never found confidence all that easy to fake.” 

“You of all people shouldn't have to fake it.”

Idina doesn’t look up, but Kristin can see the hint of a smile. 

“Are we okay?” 

Kristin nods. “Yeah."

“Okay.” 

Kristin collects herself, heading for the door. 

“You’re not a real blonde.” 

She turns around, one hand on the doorknob. Idina takes a few steps closer. 

“If you want people to see more of you... you have to show it. You have to be vulnerable. You have to be willing to let someone in.” 

Kristin tightens her grip on the doorknob, stares at the floor and sighs. As if she doesn’t fucking know. As if she hasn’t been told a thousand fucking times by everyone who stopped talking to her. 

“Most people take what you give them,” Idina says, stepping closer. “They're not gonna dig for more.” 

“You're digging right now.” 

Then there’s a hand on Kristin’s chin, gently guiding her face upward. Feeling both intensely brave and wholly exposed, she meets Idina’s eyes, facing the same look she faced on a rooftop not six days ago. 

“I'm not most people,” Idina says. 

“Maybe it's not worth showing to someone who's not willing to dig.” 

“Maybe I'll keep digging.” 

Kristin looks at her as long as she can before turning quietly, tugging the door open. It feels heavier than it did when she entered.

Her gut told her to run, and she ran. Right off a cliff, landing back where she started, and now her legs won’t move.

 

+++

 

Kristin hears Rob Thomas in her head. 

 _It’s three a.m., I must be lonely_.

She’d turned her clock facing away, but her body has a rough idea. Her heart’s sped up from lack of rest, and her fingers itch for her phone. Idina had sent her a text at midnight: _I have a story._ She ignored it. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, sliding her hand down her bare chest beneath the sheet, over her stomach and lower, feeling the first jolt of electricity as her fingers settle between her legs. In her mind, she sees the city skyline, the smog-coated sky, hears guitar music and feels Idina’s tongue against hers. She thinks of the way Idina looked at her afterwards, just before leaning back in. In this version, Kristin doesn’t stop her.

 

+++

 

They make it to the end of the week before the dam breaks. 

She doesn’t remember what she said, she doesn’t remember who started yelling first, or when Joe got out of his seat and walked out. She does remember the look on Idina’s face, cheeks flushed with rage, before she’d grabbed Kristin by the arm and pulled her out of the room. 

“Why?” Idina demands, slamming the door to the empty space and marching to the center of it, her very being suddenly magnified. There's pain starting to seep out, beneath the anger. “Just... _why_?” 

“I'm not doing anything.” 

“God d _amn_ it, Kristin!” 

“What do you want? What do you want me to say?” 

“What happened? We were so good together...” Idina starts to close in on her. “Do you not want to work with me? Do you want me to just fucking walk away from this? Because I'm not going to unless they make me, so get over it.”

“No…” Kristin shakes her head, stepping backwards. “ _No_.” 

“Then what?! _What is it?”_  

“ I -- I can't do this.” 

She turns, reaching for the doorknob, but Idina’s right there, reclaiming her arm and spinning her around. The anger’s gone, replaced by concern and a few other things Kristin hopes not to recognize. 

“Can’t do what?” she asks softly. Kristin doesn’t budge, doesn’t blink. “Kris, I'm trying. I'm digging." 

“I don't want you to dig anymore.” 

“That's not fair.” 

“No, _this_ isn't.”

Kristin looks right into her eyes, swallows hard, already feeling the fire spread across her cheeks. Her eyes fall to Idina’s mouth and her tongue darts out over her lips before she can stop it.

Idina’s entire face changes. 

Kristin watches it in slow motion, the way Idina’s lips part, her jaw going slack. Her grip on Kristin’s arm loosens, then drops altogether. She takes a step back as Kristin wraps her arms around herself, feeling the tears spring to her eyes. 

“You remember,” Idina says. “You remember everything.” 

Kristin shakes her head, a silent plea. 

“Kristin… what… why? It was just a drunken kiss, it didn’t -- it doesn’t have to -- mean anything -- ”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

Idina looks down. “I know.” 

“Then tell me. Just. Tell me it's just me.” 

“...What?” 

“I can get over it if I know you don't feel anything.” 

She’s not sure if it’s true, but it’s the best chance she’s got.

Idina stares at her for ages, eyes wide. Her face is frozen.

“I’m married,” she says suddenly.

It’s not the right answer. It’s a wrong answer that makes everything worse in too many ways to count. 

“Tell me you don’t feel anything.” 

Idina doesn’t react. Kristin wonders if she even heard her, until Idina’s gaze drops to Kristin’s lips for a half second and back up. 

“ _Please_ ,” Kristin begs. 

“Do you want me to lie to you?” 

It’s over; it’s out. Kristin stares at her, watches as Idina looks away, collecting herself.

“It’s okay. Kris, it’s okay.” 

“It's not.” 

“Sweetie, I've had crushes on like half the girls I've done shows with.” 

“I _haven’t_. I'm straight.” 

Idina rolls her eyes. “Sexuality's not black and white. But it’s okay, and it’s safe, because I'm married and you're straight so if we want to flirt and stare at each other's ass, it's fine. Right?” 

Kristin feels her heart skip a beat. She doesn’t feel remotely qualified to answer that question. How can Idina talk about this like it’s nothing? Like it’s normal? Is Kristin seriously that inexperienced? 

“I -- I'm sorry,” Idina says. “I don’t mean to be insensitive. This is new for you.” 

“Don't patronize me.” 

“I'm not. I didn't mean to.” 

Kristin looks around the room. Everything looks the same, and entirely unfamiliar. 

“It goes away. Right?” 

“Yeah,” Idina says. “It goes away.” 

Kristin relaxes a little, letting herself breathe. 

“Don't worry,” Idina says, reaching out to push a strand of hair out of Kristin’s face. “You're probably not having a crisis. You don't have to cut your hair and wear flannel.” 

Kristin glares at her, but Idina smiles. There’s something different about her smile now, something a little less open, but with the rest of the chaos in her head, Kristin can’t afford to read into it.

Idina takes her hand, rubbing her thumb gently over Kristin’s palm. Their eyes are drawn to the gesture, watching two sets of fingers curl together. Touching her for the first time since the admission is surreal, electrifying, knowing Idina feels it too. Kristin’s hand is just the right size to fit inside hers, tiny and slender in contrast to Idina’s slightly stronger, broader shape, and she wonders whether their bodies might fit like this, too. The thought shocks her; until now she hadn’t imagined much past kissing, and it seems to have struck out of nowhere, sharp and intensely erotic.

Her finger catches on Idina’s ring, shifting the stone a bit to the side, and Kristin drops her hand. 

“We’re okay,” Idina says, and Kristin believes her.

 

+++

 

Kristin stops running. She trusts Idina to keep her safe, to get her out of this unscathed. Idina knows what she's doing. 

That's the first mistake. 

The second is believing she's going to get out of this at all.

 

-

 

Idina is near tears by the time Joe crosses the room. Kristin rubs at her arm encouragingly as the pianist stutters to a halt.

"Hey. It's okay," Joe says, planting himself in front of Idina and placing both hands on her shoulders. 

Kristin steps away, but fixes him with a look of warning. 

"It's okay," he repeats. "Try something for me, all right?"

Idina avoids his eye, blinking back the frustration as he maneuvers her sideways to face Kristin. He guides Kristin a little closer, setting them a couple feet apart, parallel, and steps away. 

"Don't move," he says gently as Idina gives him a confused look. "Sing to her. Just look into her eyes and sing, the whole thing. Don't block it, just stay there. Okay?"

He nods at the pianist. As the chords thrum into life, Kristin instantly steps closer, taking Idina's hands in hers. Idina comes in on cue, _Something has changed within me,_ and something does. She looks Kristin in the eye, doesn’t miss a note, doesn’t forget the words. 

Kristin’s far enough into character that her heart begins to pound, right up to the end, until it’s the last sound in the room.

“Very nice,” Joe says. “So, pretend Kristin takes up the entire theater.”

“Her ego already takes up half,” Michelle chimes.

Kristin throws a pencil at her, and Idina throws her head back and laughs. Kristin’s eyes follow the line of her throat, long and smooth, until Idina catches her looking and hops up behind her, wrapping her arms around Kristin’s waist and rocking her side to side.

“Don’t be mad,” she grins against Kristin’s ear. “Your boobs take up the other half.” 

Kristin smiles, letting herself be held. For a moment, this is enough.

 

-

 

The documentary crew puts them behind schedule all week, leaving everyone frazzled to the last nerve. Kristin lingers by the piano after everyone disappears, just so she can remember what the silence feels like.

She runs her fingers along the keys, letting them trip softly over black and white, occasionally coaxing forth a note. In fourteen days she’ll be on a plane to San Francisco to prove that all the blood, sweat, and tears were worth it. It’s a little hard to believe they’ve made it this far.

She sits down at the bench, letting her eyes adjust. Someone turned the lights off on the way out but there’s plenty from the windows, casting streaks of sunset over the lid of the instrument, the strips of tape on the floor, the tables and chairs and the wide open space where they pieced this beautiful nightmare together. A fluttering [Chopin movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMG62zWcfWY) fades into her memory and she tests out a few riffs, trying to remember. 

“Full of hidden talents, aren’t you?” 

Idina leans against the doorway with her bag over one shoulder, smiling.

Kristin smiles back. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Idina raises an eyebrow and sets her bag back down, crossing the room and settling into the chair beside the piano. She tucks her feet underneath her on the seat, cross-legged, and leans her elbows on her knees. 

“I didn’t know you played.” 

“I don’t much anymore.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

They’re too close. The chair and the bench are practically adjacent, and she can see every swirl of the greenish-brown forest that is Idina's eyes, raptly focused on hers; the slight quirk of Idina’s lips, both a challenge and a request. 

Kristin looks away, positioning her hands. “Like I could resist you.”

She covers the words quickly with a trail of opening notes. 

Most people tend to watch the keys as she plays, preferring to observe the process of music-making itself, but she can feel Idina’s eyes on her -- on her face, her hands; all over. Maybe, to Idina, that’s where the music comes from: not from the wooden box or the keys, but from Kristin’s very being. 

Where her memory falters, inspiration takes over. The high of performing makes way for a different kind of high, the kind that makes her feel exposed in a way the stage never could. 

At the end, carrying the last note to its peak and back down, she finally turns to face her audience. 

Her breath skips. Idina’s face is identical to the image Kristin remembers from the rooftop, the moment she’s played out in her head a hundred times since. The moment Idina leaned back in, and Kristin hadn’t. The moment that never was.

Finally Idina blinks, leaning back slightly. “I love Chopin.”

“Me too.”

“You play beautifully.” 

“Thank you.” Kristin looks down at her hands and flexes her fingers, stretching them out from their efforts. “Sometimes singing isn’t enough, you know? I just need...” 

“You need to use more of yourself. Like your hands.” 

Kristin smiles. “I’m pretty good with my hands.” 

Idina’s eyebrows shoot upward as Kristin laughs. 

“I _meant_ \-- “ 

“No, no,” Idina says brightly, “no need to explain, I’d rather use my imagination.” 

Kristin bites back a smile and slaps at her arm, but Idina’s reflexes are faster. She grabs Kristin’s hand and holds onto it, carefully studying each finger with purpose. Gently, she spreads Kristin’s fingers apart, slipping her own between them. 

“I learned a little sign language in college,” Kristin explains. 

“Yeah?” 

“There was this _gorgeous_ guy in the theater program… deaf, obviously. But seriously perfect in every way.”

“Gay?”

“As a maypole. I had no idea!”

“You do have horrible gaydar.” 

“I do not!” 

Idina looks up at her, smiling. “Yes, you do.” 

Kristin looks down at their hands. At some point, Idina had entwined their fingers together in a close knot, and Kristin had let her. It could be nothing, with anyone else -- it could be casual, light, friendly, if it weren’t for the roar of fire racing beneath the surface of their skin. 

Idina disentangles them, releasing Kristin’s hand. “Sign something for me.” 

“Oh, god, I don’t remember.” 

“Yes you do! Please?” 

Kristin sighs, trying to remember what Paul had said to her the day he came out. She may or may not have cried a little, once she’d pieced the words together from ASL and realized it was a quote. 

 _Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable._  

She looks up, shaping the signs as Idina watches her hands intently. 

“What does it mean?" 

Kristin smiles. “You didn’t ask me to translate, you just asked me to sign.”

“That’s not fair!”

“It’s a secret.” 

“ _So_ not fair.” 

Her smile widens and she signs, _You’re beautiful when you’re mad_. 

“Stop it!” Idina grins. “What does _that_ mean?” 

 _You’re beautiful always_. 

“Knock it off!” Idina laughs, grabbing both her hands and pinning them to her lap. The movement pulls Kristin forward, until she can feel Idina’s breath on her face. She smells like Twizzlers and peppermint, and there’s an adorable splash of freckles on her nose that Kristin always forgets until she’s close enough to see it. 

Their eyes meet. They’ve been here before. 

“I should get home.” 

Idina releases her hands. “Me too.” 

They walk each other downstairs and Idina hails the first cab, holding the door open and gesturing Kristin inside. 

Kristin smiles. “Aren’t you the perfect gentleman?“ 

She steps onto her tiptoes and leans in, aiming for the cheek, but catches the corner of Idina’s mouth instead and ducks into the cab quickly, closing her eyes.

When she looks out the window, Idina grins at her and signs, _You’re beautiful, too._

Her breath catches in her throat as the cab pulls into traffic. 

 _Sneaky bitch_ , she texts. 

 _That's the only one I know_ , Idina responds. _Otherwise it would’ve been way more inappropriate._  

Kristin looks at the screen until it dims, the first tangible evidence staring her in the face. It’s not a rooftop memory, or words lost in the air, or a fleeting sign. It’s right here, as permanent as she wants it to be. 

She hits _Delete_.

 

+++

 

There is green everywhere, shimmering, more green than there could ever be on stage -- deep forest tones, bright emerald and light, airy lime. Even the bed is green, the sheets and the walls, but Idina is her radiant self, pale and smooth and feverishly warm as she moves over Kristin, capturing her lips in a frantic, open kiss that drains the air from Kristin’s lungs. She’s kissing her back without question, letting her hands trail up and down Idina’s sides, feeling the muscles in her arms, moving over her shoulders, fingers splaying across the bare expanse of her back. Kristin lets her nails dig in and Idina arches above her, releasing a choked moan that Kristin eagerly swallows. 

There’s a hand fisted in her hair and it loosens, gliding down across Kristin’s neck, the dip in her throat, down over her naked chest and stopping to cup her breasts, one by one. They never, ever stop kissing as Idina’s hand slides lower, lower, along her stomach and skating over a hipbone. One finger traces circles on the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh, teasing her into insanity before giving in to the ache at her core and sliding inside. 

Kristin is dizzy, scarcely adjusting to the pleasure before a second finger joins the first, curling tight inside her and she’s seeing stars. She doesn’t realize the noise she’s made until Idina breaks their kiss, her lips hovering at Kristin’s ear. 

“Let go,” she whispers. “Let go and I’ll catch you.” 

Kristin opens her eyes. The green has faded into black. Beside her, the bedside clock glares 5:15. 

She sits straight up, her breath short and heart pounding. The throbbing heat between her legs is real, and the vertigo is worse. She leans back against the headboard, laying a hand flat over her chest. The other dips beneath the sheets, between her legs, pressing hard to ease the ache. 

She’s dripping wet.

 

-

 

It's an out-of-body experience, seeing someone for the first time after you dream about them. Even if we forget ninety percent of our dreams once we’re awake, ten percent can be more than enough. 

Kristin's a wreck at the studio and everyone knows, she can feel it. It's such an anomaly that no one dares call her out, but when she starts to count the looks of bewildered concern, it only gets worse. 

She dares to assume a miracle gets her through the first act but when Idina holds out the broom, looks her in the eye and says -- 

"Well, are you coming?" 

She doesn't even react. All she can see are the lips that kissed her through her climax, the hand that got her there and the voice that brought her back. 

Idina blinks, waiting for her. For the first time, Kristin forgets her line. 

Finally Idina smiles. "Come on, I've got sandwiches in the back of the broom." 

Everyone laughs, even Joe, but Kristin can't seem to climb her way out. 

"I'm sorry. Can we -- I need a minute."

 

-

 

She barely gets through the door before Idina’s pushing it open behind her. Kristin doesn’t turn around. She faces the window. At this point, that’s all she can face.

“What’s wrong?”

Kristin shakes her head, hoping it’s answer enough. 

“Come on.” She feels the voice coming closer, then a hand on her shoulder, tentative. “We’re in this together, let me help.” 

“You are the _last_ person who can help,” she hisses, spinning around. 

Idina’s hand recoils and she takes a step back. Kristin closes her eyes, willing herself into solitude. 

“I’m sorry,” Idina says.

Kristin hears fading footsteps and opens her eyes.

“I had a dream about you.” 

Idina stops walking, but she doesn’t turn around. She knows. Of course she knows. Kristin doesn’t need to say another damn word.

Slowly, Idina moves to face her. There’s no confusion in her face anymore, no concern or disconnect. They’re on the same wavelength now. 

“What kind of dream?”

Kristin glares at her for even daring, but Idina takes a step forward, then another. 

“Tell me.” 

Kristin shakes her head, a warning. She steps backward and hits the wall, but Idina doesn’t stop. She keeps moving until Kristin can feel the heat from her body, their hips inches apart and Idina’s breath warm on her face.

“Tell me,” she repeats. “This is all we get.” 

Kristin closes her eyes, wondering how she’s even considering this. “You…”

She can’t continue. Squeezing her eyes further shut, she shakes her head, only to feel Idina’s fingertips dragging lightly down her bare arm, nails scraping against the skin until she shivers. 

“I what?” 

Kristin opens her eyes, watching Idina’s fingers on her arm, stroking up and down, a rhythm that’s meant to be soothing and is anything but. Her resolve melts. 

“This,” Kristin chokes. “It was like this.” 

“Where?" 

“I don’t know.” 

“What was I doing?” 

“Touching me.” 

“Where?” 

“ _Everywhere._ ”

The last word comes out as a breath, barely there. When their eyes finally meet, Idina’s breath is coming short and quick and her eyes are starting to lose focus.

“Is that what you want?” 

“Don’t do this.” 

So Idina doesn’t. She stares at Kristin, waiting for further instruction. The implication is overwhelming. 

“Kris.” 

“I know.” 

“But -- “

“ _I know_.” 

They watch each other for what feels like an eternity, as if everything might just work itself out if they’re patient enough -- but they don’t have long. They’ll be in California in a week, a fucking _week_ , and there won’t be husbands or lives or apartments to go home to, just the two of them in one hotel for a month and a half. 

“We have to let this go.” 

Idina stares at her for another minute, and Kristin already knows she’s made an impossible request. 

“I’m trying,” Idina says, and walks out.

 

+++

 

Everything disappears without effort during the final week, no room left for drama, and the studio escalates into a madhouse. Joe releases everyone an hour early so they can go home and finish packing, but Kristin suspects he just can’t bear the sight of them anymore. There’s still two weeks of tech at the Curran, then one revision after another as the critics start to tear them apart, but for now, they’ve made it through the first storm.

Michelle and Eden start hugging people and suddenly everyone’s hugging, and Kristin watches Norbert scoop Idina up, throw her over his shoulder and start yelling that he’s captured the witch. 

“Cheno.” 

Kristin turns to see Joe standing beside her. “Hey, bossman.” 

He looks like he has some kind of speech prepared, but after a moment, he shakes his head and pulls her into a hug. 

“You amaze me every day,” he says. “Thank you.” 

She smiles, squeezing him back. “Thanks for letting me prove I could.” 

“Now prove you can get us to Broadway.” 

“Oh, sure. All by myself.”

“It’s San Francisco,” he shrugs, smiling as he gathers his things and heads for the door. “Just play up the gay.” 

“He means _on_ stage,” Michelle adds, slapping Kristin’s ass as she follows him out. “Night, losers.”

The room empties fast once Joe’s gone, and by the time Kristin moves to gather her bag, Idina’s the only one left. 

It’s easy enough to start over with her, somehow, again and again, even with everything underneath -- or maybe they’ve just taught each other the true meaning of denial. 

“You wanna grab a drink? Celebrate? I think Michelle’s dragging people to the Village, but…” 

Idina hesitates, but shakes her head. “I should get home. Taye’s cooking me a farewell dinner with some friends.”

“That’s so sweet, what are you still doing here? Get your ass home.” 

Idina doesn’t seem to hear her. She fiddles with the strap of her bag, then releases it into a chair, her hands clasping and unclasping awkwardly. 

“I wanted to tell you something,” she starts. “I just wanted to say, regardless of -- anything -- whatever happens after today, even if they hate us in California and we never get to the Gershwin, I want you to know -- I wouldn’t trade this for anything. I’m so happy I got to do this. With you. With everyone. And -- don’t tell Joe, but I loved every goddamn minute of it, even the miserable ones.” 

Kristin smiles. 

“And I know you pushed for me after the audition, so… thank you. I hope you don’t regret it.” 

Kristin steps forward, covering Idina’s restless hands with her own. 

“Idina. You made me fall in love with Elphie. It couldn’t have been anyone else.” 

Idina smiles. There’s a sparkle of tears in her eyes as Kristin pulls her into a hug, pressing their bodies together. Idina’s arms are deceptively strong, circling tight around her and nearly lifting her off her feet. It’s been awhile since Kristin’s been held like this, or held anyone in return, and even though they're sweaty and gross and exhausted it feels so warm and good and complete that she almost fails to notice how perfectly their bodies fit together.

It’s an illusion, of course. When you want someone badly enough, everything about them conspires to make you believe that you match. 

When they pull apart, they don’t go far, just enough to look at one another. Kristin’s arms are still looped around Idina’s neck, and Idina’s hands are curled around Kristin’s hips, her thumbs lightly stroking the line of exposed skin between her t-shirt and sweatpants. 

There’s still a trace of smile on Idina’s lips, which Kristin never would’ve noticed if she weren’t staring at her mouth. 

The eventual kiss is inevitable, and inevitably brief. Their lips connect like magnets, without conscious decision, and Kristin will never know who caved first but there’s only a half second of contact before she breaks it, pushing Idina to arm’s length. 

“I’m sorry,” Idina says immediately. “That wasn’t -- I wasn’t thinking. I mean -- I was. I _was_ \-- but not about the right things.” 

When Kristin doesn’t respond, Idina grabs her bag and hauls it back over her shoulder. She mumbles something about seeing her tomorrow and is almost out the door when Kristin realizes she hasn’t said anything. 

“You get under my skin.” 

In hindsight, _It’s okay_ or _I’m sorry too_ might’ve worked. 

Idina turns around, one hand on the doorframe, waiting. 

“You get inside,” Kristin says, feeling all the words fighting for release now that she’s opened the floodgates. “You break me down. You distract me. Nothing has ever -- _ever_ distracted me. That’s how I got here. That’s how I made it. That’s _who I am_.”

“Who we are changes!” Idina huffs, unimpressed, letting her bag slump to the floor and stepping back into the room. “People change us. Life changes us. God changes us, if that’s what you need to believe.” 

“It goes away. You _said_ it goes away.” 

“It _did_. It always did… before.” 

“And now?” 

Idina stares at her, trapped. She’s backed into a corner and Kristin’s left her no way out. 

Slowly, Idina walks toward her, eyes locked. Kristin’s heart speeds up with every step until Idina is right there, lifting an unsteady hand up to Kristin’s face. She stops before her fingers make contact, flexing and curling in frustration before they drop back to her side. 

Panic starts to rise. Idina’s supposed to have this under control and Kristin’s never seen her less in control than now. Now, it’s little more than blind leading blind. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Nothing. You’re married. I’m -- there’s nothing to do.” 

She starts moving toward the door but Idina grabs her arm, pulling her around into deja vu. 

“ _Kristin._ ” 

“You’re making this impossible.” 

“ _I’m_ making this impossible? You all but _begged_ me to kiss you, and in case you forgot, you kissed me back! Then you tell me you have all these -- these _feelings_ for me and you’re having fucking _dreams_ about me and I’m supposed to be some kind of fucking stoic? God damn it, Kristin, I’m only human!"

Kristin freezes. It’s herself, now, backed into the corner and if there’s a way out, it’s certainly not one she can take. 

“This -- you can’t -- I’m not -- “ 

“You’re not what? You’re straight as a fucking line, right? What is it you always say about being your ‘authentic self’? Maybe you really are full of shit.” 

Kristin is floored. Idina’s been so patient with her for so long that she never expected to be called out. Idina’s never spoken to her this way -- from what Kristin’s seen, she’s never spoken to _anyone_ this way. 

Collecting herself, Kristin tugs at her shirt, absently smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. 

“You’re married.”

“What is that, like your safeword? Stop saying it. I _know_.” 

“We can’t -- this can’t happen again.” 

“I know.” 

Kristin picks up her bag, eyes on the door. “I’ll see you at the airport.”

 

+++

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s fast, it’s rough, it’s raw; Kristin’s never been kissed or kissed back in such a way, like they’d die without it and never really lived before it._

_______________

  


Their terminal at LaGuardia is a writhing mess, but it's New York, so no one notices. When she spots the others, everyone seems to be on their feet, circling the rows of conjoined seats and bursting with nervous energy. Joe and Stephen are huddled in the corner clutching venti lifelines and clearly engaged in the world's most important discussion. 

But Idina's slouched in one of the corner seats by the wall of windows overlooking the tarmac, looking glum with her head cradled on Eden's shoulder. 

"Morning," Kristin offers, sitting across from them and dumping her carry-ons beside her. 

Idina mumbles something, but Eden looks up from her book, smiles, and echoes the greeting. 

"Dee's getting cold feet." 

"I'm _fine_ ," Idina says. 

Her eyes meet Kristin's for a moment, expressionless, before dropping away. 

Kristin pulls out her phone, sets it to silent, and starts a new text. 

 _I'm a mess. Forgive me?_  

She watches Idina dig her phone out of her hoodie pocket with labored effort, flip it open and stare at the screen for far too long. Finally, she puts it away, settling back against Eden. She looks up, giving Kristin a small smile. 

Kristin smiles back. "Where're y'all sitting?"

"I'm in E8, I think Dee's E9." 

"Switch with me." 

Eden pouts, pulling Idina close. "No." 

"Please? Flying scares me and I need my Elphie." 

"Well, I'm -- " 

"Ladies... _ladies_ ," Idina sighs dramatically, sitting up. "Please, no fighting. There's enough of me to go around." 

Eden swats at her, then smirks at Kristin. "You know, one of these days _I'm_ gonna be your Elphie."

"Is that a threat, Espinosa?" Idina grins, looming over her. "Is that a _threat?!_ "

Eden giggles as Idina tries to steal her book, shrinking away and returning her eyes to the page as Kristin releases a breath of relief. She flips her phone back open and starts tackling her mountain of emails when a text pops through. 

 _You appear to have forgotten your skirt._  

Her heart skips a beat, giddy at the reference. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Idina still typing. Then, a second: 

 _Is skirt off sick?_  

A short, chopped noise escapes her. She looks down at her admittedly mini miniskirt, smoothly crossing her legs and tugging at the fabric. When she looks up, Idina's fixed her with a positively wicked grin. 

 _Appalled by castmate's lack of fashion sense,_ she replies. _Wondering how one could evaluate size of skirt without first observing vast expanse of bare legs. Suggest castmate sick, not skirt._

She watches nervously as Idina scans the screen. A slow, measured smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she shoves her phone back in her pocket. She doesn't look at Kristin, but the smile stays. 

If they can just keep starting over, maybe one of these days they’ll get it right.

 

-

 

“Are you really scared of flying?” 

Kristin looks down at her hands, knuckles white from gripping the armrests as the engine roars into life. “...No.”

“Oh, sweetie, c’mere.” Idina pries one of Kristin’s hands away and holds it, rubbing her arm. “Don’t worry, if we crash in the water your boobs’ll keep you afloat.”

Kristin stares at her, horrified. Idina stifles a snicker. 

“I’m kidding. I’m so sorry.” She reaches above them, searching for the service button. “Come on, let’s get you some tequila.” 

Half an hour later, tipsy and giggling at SkyMall, Kristin falls asleep with her head in Idina’s lap. She dreams, briefly, of a wide open stage and an audience on their feet. Idina steps up behind her in the spotlight, slides her arms around Kristin’s waist and whispers in her ear, _Look what we did… together._

 

-

 

Room keys have barely been distributed before Michelle starts ordering people to meet her at the pool in twenty minutes for the last shred of leisure anyone can hope to enjoy, “including and especially Drunk Thing 1 and Drunk Thing 2,” despite the fact that the buzz has long worn off and Kristin’s mostly sleepy. She couldn’t sleep if she tried, though -- not now, in an unfamiliar place -- but if she can wear herself out, she might have a chance. 

She brought two swimsuits but opts for the barely-there red bikini without letting herself overthink it. By the time she makes her way down, they’ve organized a complex round of water basketball with Norbert’s arms as the basket, resulting in a handful of half-naked women brushing up against him. Kristin’s never seen him so pleased. 

She immediately declares the game grossly unfair and size-ist, until Idina ducks underwater and scoops her up onto her shoulders, lifting her higher than anyone. It’s so sudden that Kristin’s instantly consumed by the sensation of slick skin; the muscles moving in Idina’s shoulders; the dark, wet waves of hair tickling her inner thighs, and Idina’s arms wrapped tightly around her legs, holding her steady. She channels performance, redirecting the endorphins into competition, scoring one basket after another until Idina declares exhaustion and disappears underwater, letting Kristin slide off her back. 

She’s gone by the time Kristin leaves the water, sloshing over to a lounge chair and reaching for her towel. As she wraps it around her shoulders, she spots a second room key laying flat on the seat beside her own with a hotel post-it stuck to the back. She stares at it for a moment in her hand before turning it over, fighting a fierce suspicion that she’s about to get an offer she can’t refuse. 

She flips it over, catching sight of the odd angles and sprawling loops. 

_532 if you can’t sleep_

 

-

 

The stairs are cold against her bare feet at two a.m., but it’s only two flights down and less risky than the elevator. 

Kristin presses her ear to the door for a moment to check for signs of life. The last thing she needs is to walk in on Idina in the middle of a shower, or worse. 

Not letting herself consider what “worse” might be, she slips the card into the slot, almost surprised when the light flashes green and the door easily gives way. Quiet as she can, she pushes it open and steps into darkness. 

It takes her eyes a moment to adjust, but from the outside light she realizes the room is laid out the same as hers, and she finds her way to the edge of the bed. Idina’s sprawled across the entire king-sized expanse, limbs tossed wildly in every direction. There’s about six inches of space on the nearest side, and Kristin considers whether it’s worth the risk of waking her. 

Idina stirs, suddenly, dropping her head to the side as her eyes blink open. 

“Kristin?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

“Oh, hey. It’s fine, come on.” Idina gathers herself to one side and pulls the covers back, straightening the pillow on what apparently has just become Kristin’s side. “You need two, right?” 

Kristin feels a second pillow flop down beside her as she climbs in. “Thanks.”

“Mm. You need anything?” 

“No, I’m good.” 

“Okay.” Idina’s eyes flutter a bit, then fall shut. “I’m here.” 

Beneath the covers something shuffles, and she feels Idina’s hand grasping around until it finds Kristin’s, grabbing hold of it. She lets go after a moment but doesn’t move, letting Kristin decide whether to pull away or keep the contact. 

Kristin watches her until Idina’s breath evens out into a sleep-sure rhythm. She’s exquisitely beautiful like this -- calm and peaceful, her features relaxed and lips slightly parted. Her hair is everywhere, some even spilling over onto Kristin’s pillow, so it doesn’t feel too terribly wrong when Kristin curls her finger around the end of a strand and holds it close. It smells like shampoo, with the distinct touch of Idina-ness that she can’t otherwise define. It occurs to her how few people have seen Idina like this, and she wonders whether they saw everything she’s seeing; whether they even deserved to -- not that Kristin does, either.

Inching forward, she clasps the hand adjacent to hers, pulling it closer to cradle under her chin. She shuts her eyes and doesn’t dream. This is close enough.

 

-

 

Idina’s asleep when Kristin leaves the room at seven. 

“Thank you,” Kristin tells her at the theater, as soon as she sees her.

“Yeah, yeah.” Idina sighs, adjusting Elphaba’s hat in the mirror. “Take what you need from me and I wake up alone. I see how this is.”

Kristin smiles.

 

+++

 

Tech rehearsals redefine Murphy’s Law. The bubble stalls, mid-air. A light fixture crashes in the wings. The rest of the lighting is half a second off for an entire scene. Idina’s mic keeps cutting off and Joe is pulling out his hair.

The second night, Kristin’s an hour earlier. 

The third night, it’s midnight. 

The fourth, Idina’s still awake, sitting in bed in the too-small AC/DC shirt she’s had since high school, with a book resting on her knees and the TV on mute. She looks up at Kristin behind her glasses and smiles, switching the TV off. 

“I’m almost done with this chapter.” 

“No, I didn’t mean to -- “ 

“Kristin, get into bed.”

Idina’s still smiling as Kristin crawls in and curls up on her side. As she adjusts under the covers, she realizes Idina’s wearing nothing below but a pair of white panties clinging tight to her hips. Kristin closes her eyes. 

After a moment, there’s a gentle hand in her hair, softly massaging the base of her neck. She falls asleep to the rhythm of Idina’s fingers and the sound of an occasional page turn, and doesn’t wake up first.

 

+++

 

Idina talks in her sleep. 

Kristin figures it out after a few nights when she wakes up just after four to find Idina nestled against her side, one arm flung across Kristin’s waist as she mumbles into the fabric of her shirt. 

“Dodgeball,” she drawls softly. “Is that why the lizards ate all the pie?” 

Kristin forces the laughter back down her throat, overcome with affection, and brings a hand up to card her fingers through Idina’s hair, sweeping the strands away from her face. Feeling bold in the dark, she leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Idina's head.

“Yes, baby,” she whispers. “That’s why.” 

Idina stills and settles, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

It’s mostly nonsense, until one night it isn’t. 

It’s movement that wakes Kristin, soundless and wavelike. She rolls over, propping herself up on her elbow to see Idina framed by filtered light from the sheer curtains, stirring under the covers until she manages to twist out of them altogether. One hand is spread out over her bare stomach, her shirt bunched up to her ribs, and the other hand comes up out of nowhere, landing on the pillow above her head. Her fingers dig into the plush corner, gripping tight, and a tiny whimper leaves her mouth. 

Then another. 

Suddenly her head tips back, her abs clench, and the hand across her stomach closes, nails scraping against the skin as she gasps. 

“ _Kristin._ ” 

Kristin’s mouth is parched. Her tongue feels like it’s coated in sand and she can’t seem to swallow. She stares, frozen, like she’s outside of herself and watching from across the room as the restless hand over Idina’s stomach begins to slide lower, catching on the low-rise waistline of her shorts before slipping underneath. 

“Kris… _please_.” 

Kristin jolts back into her body, leaning over to grab hold of Idina’s shoulder and give it a gentle shake.

“Dee. Idina, wake up.” 

Idina’s eyes shoot open as her body stiffens, her breath reduced to shallow puffs. She stares at Kristin in the dark with bright, wide eyes and slack jaw. She’s too close. No, it’s not her fault. _Kristin_ is too close, almost on top of her, one hand still gripping her shoulder. Six inches -- no, four -- and they’d be -- 

“You were dreaming,” Kristin says. 

Idina blinks, her muscles tensing under Kristin’s touch. She lifts a hand -- oh God, _that_ hand -- and grazes Kristin’s cheek with her fingers, tracing the lines like she’s trying to see if she’s real. Kristin forces herself not to lean into it, not to close her eyes, not to let herself get any closer or Idina would feel the rough pulse of her heartbeat, and she’d know. 

“You okay?” 

After a few more breaths Idina nods, dropping her hand and turning over onto her side, facing away. Irrationally, Kristin wants to grab her shoulder and pull her back, force her to acknowledge this instead of letting her retreat like it didn’t happen -- until she realizes Idina’s doing it for the same reason Kristin has all along: her control has started to crack. 

If she doesn’t retreat, it will shatter.

 

+++

 

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you? Me being here?" 

Idina looks at her across the bed through the dark, their eyes well adjusted after an hour of quiet talk, sharing anxieties about the show, complaining and reassuring and giggling. Idina’s impression of Joe is so spot-on that Kristin almost peed her pants laughing. 

They've been working hard to get here, to make it feel normal -- to stave off the nagging urge to jump each other's bones at the slightest provocation. They’ve worked hard and they deserve it, the easy comfort of friendship without benefits. 

"I'm sure." Idina averts her eyes, glancing down at her hands folded at her chest, and smiles to herself. "Not that it isn't hard in other ways.” 

She looks up when Kristin doesn’t respond. 

“I’m sorry -- fuck, did I just fuck it up?” 

“No.” Kristin lies. “Maybe… I shouldn’t…” 

“No, it’s -- we can’t just -- we’re good, right? We’re doing good, this is -- it feels like normal, right?” 

Not entirely trusting herself with words, Kristin simply nods. But it’s the silence that gets them; that’s what they can’t let slip through. If they can keep the conversation going, they’re golden. 

“Two days,” Idina says. “We should....”

“Yeah.” 

“Sleep well.”

They’re facing each other; one of them’s got to turn over, and Idina’s making no effort. She hasn’t closed her eyes, either, hasn’t even looked away. But she’s the one doing the favor, allowing Kristin here night after night, and it’s her bed after all, so Kristin’s willing to take one for the team.

“Goodnight,” she says, and turns to face the wall. 

There’s no sleep tugging at her eyelids, no softening around the edges of her thoughts. She’s wide awake, and she can feel Idina’s eyes on her still. She wonders if Idina’s simply staring at her back, or letting her gaze wander over the curve of Kristin’s shoulder under the thin, clingy fabric of her tank top; or the bare skin of her neck where her hair’s been swept to the side; or lower, over the line of her hip where it disappears beneath the sheet. 

Unconsciously, Kristin shifts her hips backward, just a bit, and lets her torso follow, effectively erasing an inch or two of space between them. There’s no point in balancing on the edge of the mattress. If Kristin’s afraid to touch her, they’ll never make it past the first night of tryouts. 

She feels the mattress shift behind her, just barely dipping. It’s not until she notices a fractional rise in temperature that she realizes it’s body heat. Idina’s closer. 

There has to be at least six inches left between them, and Kristin slowly scoots back another two or three. She’s not sure what she’s trying to prove, but when she feels the mattress dip behind her again, she stops trying to dissect it.

This is as far as she can go. She can feel Idina’s breath on her neck, and the scarce brush of fabric between the loose cotton of their shorts. One more move and they’ll be spooning. 

Her body betrays her, challenging itself to another half inch, but it’s a half inch too much. Her lower back makes contact with Idina’s hand, and Idina seems so shocked by it that she jerks her hand away. Kristin has no idea where it goes until, several moments later, it reappears in the same spot, slowly sliding up to rest on her hip. Unsteady fingers fit around the curve, lightly at first, then a bit firmer as Idina uses the leverage to pull herself another degree forward, fitting her hips against the curve of Kristin’s ass. 

Kristin gasps. She knows it must’ve been audible but she prays against all odds it wasn’t. 

Idina seems to have reached her limit. She doesn’t press further, but her fingers tighten a bit on Kristin’s hip, then loosen, shifting in an odd pattern until Kristin realizes Idina’s drawing circles on the skin just above her waistband. 

Every nerve in her body zeroes in on the singular point of contact. She considers how many inch-by-inch dares it would take for those fingers to find their way between her legs, knowing they’re already so close to changing everything -- that a single, gentle stroke could turn their worlds upside down, never to return -- if it hasn’t already.

Admitting the desire doesn't scare her anymore. What terrifies her is knowing for certain that if Idina started -- here, now -- Kristin wouldn’t stop her.

Her own hand finds its way to her hip, covering Idina’s. It freezes under her touch, but stays. Kristin doesn’t know if she meant to push it away or guide it somewhere else entirely, and the uncertainty makes her head spin.

She can’t tell who’s leading whom, but their hands shift in unison, sliding over Kristin’s hip, forward, across her shirt and then up, underneath the hem, spreading out over the tense muscles of her bare stomach just above her belly button. Her hand tightens over Idina’s, holding it in place, petrified of where it would take them next, and Kristin’s absolutely certain she’s never been more turned on in her life.

“Stop,” Idina whispers in her ear, “or I won’t be able to.”

Kristin stops. Her eyes open. All she sees is the dark wall and a framed photo of an orchid but it’s more than enough reality to pull her back in. Her hand drops away, fisting tight against the mattress as she waits for Idina to retreat.

Idina does, finally, shifting away and rolling far off to the other side. Kristin resists the urge to race back to her own room, knowing it would only reinforce what happened. They don’t need anything else making this any realer than it was.

She stays awake a long time, waiting to hear the soft, even breaths that tell her Idina’s asleep.

They never come.

 

+++

 

The stress of the final days takes over, pushing everyone’s personal bullshit to the back burner. Michelle seems to forget she’s in love with Norbert, Joe forgets why he signed on for this in the first place, Stephen forgets why he writes music for a living and Kristin forgets she has a colossal lesbian hard-on for her co-star. 

She tries, anyway.

Two suits from Universal hover at stage left, commanding silence. There’s still about fifteen of them on the stage, principals and the main crew -- but Kristin’s pretty sure they all feel supremely alone in the moment.

“You’ve got two days. I shouldn’t have to tell you what to fix, but you’d better fucking fix it.” 

They both walk off in a cloud of tension, fishing cell phones out of their pockets as they disappear backstage. 

Eyes gravitate toward Joe, who looks at everyone in turn.  
  
“Fuck ‘em,” he says. “We’ve got this.” 

It’s certainly not the response Kristin was anticipating, and she feels a little of the tension seep from her shoulders. But everyone around her remains frozen, and Idina, especially, seems like she might disintegrate if anyone speaks to her.

Kristin doesn’t think about it; her body just takes over. It seems like the only natural solution to grab Idina, spin her around, dip her backwards and plant a firm, theatrical kiss right on her lips. 

It feels like the performance that it is, and that keeps it safe, letting her pull away easily without even registering Idina's reaction as everyone bursts into laughter, applause, and catcalls.

Idina handles it well, covering her shock with an open smile that Kristin hopes is genuine. She takes Kristin’s hand, swinging it back and forth, and Kristin takes the hint, following her into a deep, dramatic bow as Norbert lets out a whistle. 

Idina releases her hand and grins at everyone, avoiding Kristin's eye. 

“The scary part is... I enjoyed it.”

 

-

 

Idina doesn't speak to her after they leave the theater.

Back in her room, Kristin digs into her suitcase and extracts a tablet from the bottle of Ambien.

 

+++

 

Kristin will never remember the name of the restaurant or the street it’s on. Probably for the best, if she ever visits the city again. 

In twenty-four hours she’ll descend from an outrageous metal bubble and do her damnedest to get them to Broadway as promised. The final dress run was flawless, and the smile Idina gave her at the end was enough to make her believe she can. _They_ can. 

For now, they celebrate -- a little prematurely, but Joe insisted. The private party room is big enough, but only just. They’ve seated her and Idina side by side, of course. In the dozen conversations buzzing around them, interaction isn’t necessary -- but with limited space, touch is virtually unavoidable. 

It’s nothing at first, elbows brushing as Kristin reaches for the bruschetta; Idina’s hand resting briefly on Kristin’s forearm to get her attention. Their knees bump once under the table, skin on skin, and Kristin remembers they’re both wearing dresses. 

She lets it happen again, shifting her leg just for a moment of contact. As indulgences go, it’s pretty innocent. If necessary, it can always be written off as an accident.

The hand resting suddenly on the seat beside her thigh, however, cannot. 

It’s Idina’s left hand, so it’s not like it doesn’t have anything else to do. There’s still food on her plate, and her right hand pushes it around awkwardly with the fork for a moment before giving up. She’s nodding along to a story now on the opposite side of her, but Kristin hasn’t heard a word of it and she’s pretty sure Idina hasn’t, either. 

Idina’s hand shifts, her fingers opening. Hidden beneath the table, they brush along Kristin’s skin in the process, grazing the outside of her thigh below the edge of her dress. Kristin could pull away. Just a slight shift; it wouldn’t even be obvious. When she doesn’t, Idina moves her hand a little closer in, one finger adjusting to climb up the side of her leg.

Kristin freezes as another finger follows, then a third, fourth, slow and smooth enough to be genuinely impressive, until Idina’s entire hand is resting on top of her leg. She doesn’t even start low, at the knee; she’s already halfway up her thigh, abandoning pretense as her hand moulds to the shape and her thumb slowly slips underneath the hem of Kristin’s dress. 

Kristin tenses, hard, and Idina feels it. As smooth as it came, her hand curls into a fist and slides away back down to the seat, leaving a half inch of space between their skin, and doesn’t move.

The loss of contact makes Kristin’s stomach flip, aching to reconnect. Without thought, her legs shift open slightly, just enough to brush against Idina’s hand, which reopens immediately at the touch.

Message received.

Idina needs no further encouragement. Her hand slides back up to where it left off, settling even higher than before like she’s making up for the lost seconds. Her thumb slips easily back underneath the loose fabric of Kristin’s dress and a finger follows, then another, torturously slow before Kristin realizes she’s actually pushing the dress up, inch by agonizing inch. Kristin feels the fabric slide along her skin and Idina’s hand following until there are trembling fingers hovering just below her pantyline, drawing delicate, abstract patterns on the velvet-soft skin of her inner thigh. Kristin can’t think. She can’t hear. She can’t see anything past the tablecloth in front of her, can’t remember where she is, and her heart is pounding so hard she’s sure if the conversation around them fell silent, everyone would hear. 

One bold finger crosses the threshold, scarcely grazing the line of black satin, and across the table, Joe rises to his feet. 

Idina jerks her hand away so fast it hits the table, rattling a few pieces of silverware, but no one seems to notice as the conversations lull to a hush. Kristin snaps her legs shut and looks up, forcing herself back into focus.

Joe smiles around the table, holding his glass in one hand.

“I promise I’ll keep it shorter than the pep talks, but I think a toast is in order.” 

Everyone chuckles obligingly, reaching for their glasses. Kristin can’t remember which is hers and she and Idina reach for the same one. It’s Kristin’s hand that retreats, now, giving up and settling safely in her lap.

Joe launches into something Kristin doesn’t really hear, thanking everyone in turn, aptly referencing inside jokes and mishaps and all the things that seemed like nightmares at the time but grow hilarious in hindsight. Kristin smiles or laughs at the appropriate times, taking her cues from the others, but she doesn’t process a single word until she hears her name.

“And Idina, Kristin...” He turns to face them, smiling warmly. It probably pains him to do it, but the sentiment is appreciated. “The most dynamic stage couple I’ve ever been privileged to work with -- you have breathed life into this production. Watching you evolve and grow into these roles has been truly inspiring and I thank you, for your dedication, for your talent… and for putting up with me.”

He lifts his glass higher, everyone following suit.

“To our beautiful witches.”

Kristin hears the words echoed in the voices of their showmates, all eyes on her for a moment until conversations begin to pick back up. Immediately she pushes her seat back and gets to her feet, muttering “Excuse me” to anyone listening, and heads out of the room.

She swerves dangerously past servers with trays, other patrons, ducks around table corners and starts following signs for the restroom. Halfway there she realizes it’s not safe, that it’s the first place Idina would come looking for her, and takes a sharp turn at the last second beneath a bright red Exit sign, pushing open the first door she finds. 

It leads her to an empty lot behind the restaurant. It doesn’t seem like a loading area, but smaller, more intimate. Sprawling, leafy vines weave their way up the brick wall of the adjacent building, and a small garden terrace sits off to the left, housing a group of wrought iron cafe tables and chairs. She wonders if she’d be allowed to sit there, only to find that her legs won’t cooperate. 

Her heart’s still pounding as she leans against the brick, resting her head on one of the vines. Her face is feverish, her legs are trembling and she can still feel Idina’s touch burning on her skin. She knows she’s soaked through her panties, she can feel it whenever she moves -- but at least Idina didn’t make it that far. 

Reality closes in on her as the scene plays back in her head, forcing her to acknowledge what happened -- what she let happen -- what she practically _asked_ to happen: her married female costar felt her up in a crowded restaurant in front of all their friends, and not only did Kristin let her, but her body’s still screaming for more.

She squeezes her eyes shut but it only makes the memory more vivid. A warning hint of vertigo starts to creep up on her and she places a hand over her chest, forcing herself to breathe deeper with each inhale, willing it away. 

When the tears finally spring up, stinging her eyes, she lets them. She’s fighting too much already. 

The door swings open, and she jolts.

The sight of Idina isn’t intimidating as she expects, but catalyzing. Anger flares up inside her, fueling life back into her voice as she glares daggers across the fifteen feet of space between them, steadying herself on her feet even as Idina’s moving towards her. 

“What the _hell_ was that?” Kristin snaps. “You can’t _do_ that! You can’t pull shit like this, it’s not _fair_ , you said, you _promised_ we’d -- ”

But Idina never stopped moving and now she’s here, cupping one hand smoothly around the back of Kristin’s head and the other around the small of her back as she shoves her into the wall and covers Kristin’s mouth with her own -- hard, consuming, and unforgiving.

They say, when drowning, there’s a period of euphoria before consciousness slips away. Kristin clings to it desperately, meeting Idina’s every demand as their mouths open, tongues fighting for dominance and hands out of control, searching for contact, for closeness too deep to exist. It’s fast, it’s rough, it’s raw; Kristin’s never been kissed or kissed back in such a way, like they’d die without it and never really lived before it. She lets herself feel, finally, _finally_ , what she’s been missing for weeks, Idina’s skin under her hands, Idina’s mouth licking and biting at hers, Idina’s hands running over her back and along the curve of her ass, pulling her in. 

It’s nothing like it was on the roof, no gentle hesitation or first-time jitters. Idina whimpers into her mouth when Kristin’s hand slides up her dress to cup her breast over the fabric, and Kristin gasps at the soft weight beneath her palm, squeezing gently. She’s already so dizzy from the lightspeed pace they’ve snowballed into that when Idina’s hand slips under her dress, right back where it left off, Kristin’s knees start to buckle.

Idina’s right there to catch her, holding her up with one arm firm around Kristin’s waist and the other hand creeping higher up her dress until Kristin slips a little further down the wall and Idina’s hand brushes against the hot, wet satin between her legs. They both moan at the sensation and Kristin scarcely recognizes her own voice, but it’s enough. 

In a heartbeat, she comes to her senses.

She’s aiming for gentle but firm, and fails. When she shoves Idina away, they both stagger on their feet, momentarily lost. Kristin takes a few wobbly steps backward towards the restaurant door as Idina stands there in shock, breathless, lips swollen and pupils blown.

Kristin has no idea what to say. She can’t apologize, and she knows Idina won’t. Not this time. One look at her wild, flushed face tells Kristin she’s nowhere near sorry.

Kristin can only stare at her, feeling oddly shocked that this person existed all along inside the shy, nervous woman who auditioned with green nail polish and green eyeshadow. It seems like another lifetime, now. But she’s so beautiful -- still, so beautiful, and so kind, and a superbly _fantastic_ kisser that Kristin simply can’t bring herself to anger. 

The tears spring back, and she blinks them away. 

“I can’t.” 

Idina doesn’t react, but Kristin can sense something breaking behind her eyes.

“I can’t do it. This stops here.” 

She stumbles through the door, finding her way back to their table where she feigns exhaustion, grabs her purse and says her goodbyes.

Safely outside, she swipes at her eyes, only to catch Idina’s scent in the air. She spins around, looking in every direction before she realizes the scent is on her. 

All over her.

 

-

 

The room is quiet save for the shower’s steady, roaring flow. Kristin cranks up the temperature, letting the steam fill her lungs. She tries in vain to wash off her mascara, only to realize the tears did a good enough job of it already. 

She scrubs herself down, twice, hoping it will help. It doesn’t, of course. She aches for Idina’s smell as soon as she’s washed it down the drain. 

There are too many thoughts, when the water’s off and she’s wrapped in silence. Too many and not one any more useful than another. 

Sexuality is unfair. Marriage is unfair. Life is unfair. God is -- 

Where is He, anyway? Is this a glitch, just an overlooked kink in the system, or is it part of a plan? 

She puts on clean underwear and the old, faded OCU Stars shirt that’s much too big on her, falling just to the tops of her thighs. She sits down on the edge of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

 _I don’t know what to pray for_ , she tells Him.

They have to fix it. They take the stage in twenty-two hours. This is bigger than them -- this is other people’s careers on the line; their lives; a marriage. They can keep ignoring, keep resisting, keep building up to moments that nearly explode until one finally does, like tonight, and hope they survive the aftershocks. But what happens next time? What if Kristin doesn’t stop it? They can’t keep pretending they haven’t already crossed some line into adultery, even if the word sounds twisted and wrong in her head. Adultery is a sin; every moment she’s shared with Idina felt like anything but. 

Maybe she’s lying to herself, grappling for anything to justify, but -- what if. What if it never goes away? What if none of this is black and white? 

What would happen, if they gave in? What if that’s the only way out -- straight through the fire? 

Kristin’s been so scared of being burned she hasn’t considered what might rise from the ashes. 

The decision’s been made by the time she pulls open her door, padding down the hall to the stairwell, her pace quickening with every step. She doesn’t have a damn clue what it is, but she’s trusting whatever forces at work to make it clear by the time she gets to the fifth floor. 

She stares at the numbers on the door, taking a single, shaking breath before lifting her hand to knock. 

There are no surprises. Idina pulls open the door, damp hair curling around her shoulders. Kristin can smell the fresh shampoo. A dark blue dressing gown hugs her frame, dipping low at the neckline below pale skin and freckles, and there’s only one thought left that leaves Kristin stranded in confusion.

How on earth she’s managed to wait this long.

  
  
+++

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They’re treading on thin ice but it can’t hold forever; one crack and they’d drown._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to share my headspace, I listened to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbslCO_OPlc) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUJP0BwWB5Q) about a million times each before writing (context/lyrics unrelated). I also hate writing sex so I wrote it drunk; a) forgive me, or b) you're welcome.

_______________

  


Kristin waits for the pieces to fall into place.

She doesn’t know what they are or where they’re supposed to fall, and the longer Idina stares at her, the more she realizes a few might be missing. 

Idina’s eyes drop down for a moment, then back up, closing instantly, before Kristin realizes why.

Rejecting someone half a dozen times and showing up pantsless in their hotel room may not be the most considerate move. 

When Idina looks back at her, her eyes aren’t so friendly. Still, she steps back enough for Kristin to step inside. She takes extra time closing the door as Kristin takes in the room. The small lamp on the desk is bright enough to see, but barely; most of it’s shadows and blurs. There’s a bottle sitting atop the minibar, but it’s unopened. There’s a cigarette resting on the edge of a ceramic saucer from room service, but it hasn’t been lit. Either Kristin caught her just in time, or Idina decided she wasn’t worth it. Kristin isn’t sure which is worse.

She turns around to find Idina in the middle of the room, staring at her. As Kristin takes a step forward, Idina takes one back. Kristin tries again, with the same result. 

Idina’s resolve may be shaky, but it’s resolute. It’s clear she’s absolutely committed, this time, to not losing control. 

Kristin tries again until finally, Idina gives up, keeping herself planted to the spot in defiance. Kristin takes another step, then one more until they’re nearly touching. Idina’s eyes fall shut and Kristin can hear the measured, shallow breaths. Gently, Kristin reaches up to touch her face, fingers brushing softly over her eyes, coaxing them open.

Kristin says, “I’m here.” 

Idina seems to recognize what it means, but she barely reacts when Kristin leans in, touching their lips together. Her eyelids flutter but they stay open, keeping her strong. Kristin pulls back enough to place both hands on her face, drawing their foreheads together. 

“I’m here.”

Idina’s face shifts as she begins to unravel Kristin’s intent. Still stoic, still immobile, she simply watches, helpless, as Kristin trails her hands down over Idina’s shoulders, down the front of her chest to the tie on her gown. She keeps their eyes locked as her fingers start to unfasten the knot until the gown hangs loose, nearly falling open. She slides her hands back up to Idina’s shoulders and slowly, slowly, pushes at silken fabric until it swishes to the floor in a heap. 

There’s a sudden, vast expanse of pale skin at Kristin’s disposal when she realizes Idina’s wearing nothing but a pair of lavender panties and looking at her like she’s insane. 

Kristin doesn’t let herself look down, not yet. She feels around for Idina’s hand, taking it in her own and placing it carefully on her waist. 

Once more, she looks straight past the fear, past the distrust, into Idina’s eyes and says, “I’m here.” 

Idina falters, stutters, her fingers tightening and then releasing against Kristin’s hip as she searches for the words.

“I think I lost my nerve.” 

Kristin leans in. “It’s okay. I found mine,” she says, and kisses her. 

The urgency isn’t gone, it pulses deep under the surface but doesn’t manifest. Idina’s other hand comes to her other side but it just feels like grounding, carrying her through the shock, nothing else. Kristin keeps it slow, soft and closed-mouth, worried she’s going to be pushed off, and in a single breath, she understands what Idina’s been going through every damn time.

When Idina finally responds it’s perfectly controlled, closed-off, so unlike her that Kristin has to pull back, sliding her hands up to Idina’s shoulders and squeezing gently, trying to ease the tension. 

“You don’t have to hold back.” 

Idina looks exasperated, turning away. “Yes, I _do_.” 

Kristin guides her face back with one hand and looks into her eyes, piercing and clear. 

“No. You really don’t.” 

This time Idina doesn’t look away, and Kristin begs silently for her to see. They’ve spent months learning to speak with a single glance. It can’t possibly fail them now. 

After a moment she feels Idina’s fingers tighten experimentally against her hip, just scarcely tugging her forward and Kristin melts into it, flooded with relief. Idina lets one hand slide around to her back, fingers splaying across Kristin’s spine, and Kristin moves with her, going pliant and allowing herself to be drawn in. It seems to give Idina momentum, her head tipping forward a bit but not venturing further, eyes still lost and searching as she waits for a sign. 

“Please,” Kristin whispers. 

When Idina kisses her, it’s nothing she can define. There’s no hesitation left and none of the frantic mania from before, but it’s not exactly in between, either. It feels so deeply possessing that Kristin realizes it’s the kiss she’s been fantasizing about since the beginning, the kiss that truly changes everything in a way none of the others have. This is the one they can’t come back from -- not an experiment, not an accident, not a momentary loss of control, but a deliberate, mutual choice, made conscious and sober. 

Kristin lets her hands wander, skating across her chest and back but not holding anything, not yet. Their tongues melt into one another and Idina’s pulling her so close Kristin can feel every part of their torsos pressed together. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss until there are hands creeping under her nightshirt and pushing up gently, a question, as if there’s any answer but yes. 

Kristin pulls back to lift her arms and Idina follows smoothly, lifting it over her head and leaving just two small scraps of fabric between them. 

Idina takes a step back, drinking in the sight as Kristin’s own eyes begin to wander over elegant collarbones dotted with freckles; pale, gorgeous breasts and the taut, tense plane of abs that her fingers have itched to feel for ages. She knows she should feel exposed, shy or self-conscious, but her breath is calm. Her hands aren’t shaking. Her heart’s beating a mile a minute, but it’s not for nerves. She is completely, inexplicably at ease. 

Slowly, Idina steps in, forcing her eyes back up and dragging her fingertips up and down Kristin’s sides until she shivers. A hand slides inward, hovering over Kristin’s breast without touching. 

“Can I?” 

Kristin’s caught off-guard. She has no idea how to respond. Instead, she lets out a dazed, breathless sound. 

“No one’s ever asked before.” 

The epiphany seems to surprise her more than Idina, but something affectionate passes over Idina’s eyes, drawing her out of the moment. She moves her hand up to Kristin’s cheek instead, stroking the line of her jaw. Kristin takes the initiative, reaching up and guiding Idina’s hand back down to her breast and closing her fingers around it.

Idina’s reaction is mesmerizing as she lets herself feel, squeezing lightly and circling her thumb over the nipple. Kristin’s gasp is all it takes, and they’re kissing again. It’s easier, now, easy to let her hands gravitate to Idina’s chest, let herself explore, each response daring her to push further. Before she realizes it, they’re shifting backwards until Idina hits the edge of the bed, letting gravity take her down. 

She sits back and spreads her knees, pulling Kristin forward to stand between her legs. Kristin looks down at her, running her fingers through Idina’s hair, and for the first time, she smiles. 

Idina smiles back, looking suddenly shy. She leans forward, resting her face over Kristin’s heart and wrapping her arms around her small frame, just holding her, breathing against her skin. The gesture is so tender, so intimate that the first hint of a heavy, dangerous truth starts to weigh on Kristin’s subconscious. 

This goes beyond sex.

She files the thought away, gently pushing Idina back until she can climb onto the bed with her, straddling her lap. It nearly evens out their heights and lines up their chests so that every time they kiss, Kristin can feel Idina’s breasts pressing into hers. If it weren’t for the liquid ache between her legs and the growing need to touch every inch of skin she can’t reach, she could do this for hours. 

She knew it would be different with another woman -- good, even. She didn’t know it would be wholly, helplessly addicting. 

Idina takes advantage of their position to wrap her arms around Kristin’s back, dragging her nails over the skin until Kristin arches into it, spreading her chest open. Their kiss breaks as Kristin’s head tips back in a gasp and Idina leans down to close her lips around a nipple, tracing circles with her tongue. Kristin’s body responds before her mind as she starts to rut up against Idina’s hips in a slow, unmistakable rhythm and Idina doesn’t miss it, instantly moving with her, sliding one hand over Kristin’s backside to pull her closer. Without warning, the hand slips underneath her thigh, coming in from behind to tease under the edge of soft cotton and catching Kristin by surprise. Her balance falters and she topples forward, suddenly flat on the bed with Idina spread out beneath her. 

They’re back to kissing before they’ve even adjusted, but Idina seems content to slow down now that it’s clear Kristin isn’t a half step away from vanishing into thin air. It feels like hours before they venture below the waist, settling into endless kisses with wandering lips, trailing down over skin, curves, angles and edges. They shift positions over and over, alternating between fighting for top and letting each other lead, as hands and tongues take over where their minds have been lost.

At last Kristin wrestles her way on top with intent, suddenly braver in this position, letting her hands roam freely until they reach soft lavender. It seems unfair that Idina has gotten this far on her already, and in a rush of endorphins, she boldly tips the scales, slipping her fingers underneath. 

It’s the strangest feeling -- like her own but not, even though Idina’s just as wet as Kristin feels. 

Idina’s gasp turns into a whimper, which turns into a moan as Kristin starts to explore, stroking gently. Idina maintains enough control to look into her eyes, holding her tightly, until Kristin realizes she has no idea what she’s doing. 

Her fingers slow down, then stop altogether. 

“Okay?” 

Idina nods. The look in her eyes is all the encouragement Kristin needs. 

She starts to tug at the fabric until Idina helps, lifting her hips until they’re sliding them off together. Kristin settles back in, half on top, and starts to move tentatively until Idina catches on that she’s waiting for direction -- just a little, just enough that she can run with it on her own, like always.

Idina places her hand over Kristin’s, sliding her fingers a millimeter to the left. 

“Here,” she breathes, and Kristin nods. “Circles.” 

When she releases her hand Kristin picks up where they left off, and if Idina’s face is any indication, she guessed right.

Kristin’s always been a fast learner. She goes with intuition, touching the way she likes to be touched, exploring different speeds and rhythms to see what breaks Idina apart, what reduces her to breathless gasps and arching back. She wants to slide her finger inside, see how it feels, but she waits. That can come later. She’s afraid to break her rhythm and right now, she’s far too eager to bring Idina over the edge, to see her face as the last shred of self-control starts to unravel.

They stay grounded in each other’s eyes until Kristin finally settles into a confident pace and Idina quickly starts to come undone. Kristin can see it building, grateful for how wildly expressive Idina is, even now -- how open and raw. Kristin was worried she might not be skilled enough to get her here, or might not recognize it if she did, but Idina makes it crystal clear. Kristin leans in at the last moment, kissing her deeply, and that’s all it takes. Idina grabbing onto her, tight and desperate as she shudders through her release, but Kristin barely has time to witness it before Idina’s pulling her in, their bodies flush as Kristin holds her through the aftershocks.

Idina doesn’t let them bask for long before until she flips them over, pinning Kristin down and looking into her eyes.

Kristin’s seen this look before. It’s hunger, need and want rolled into one, and the fact that there’s nothing stopping them this time makes her shiver, head to toe. She lets her legs spread open, but Idina is elsewhere, her eyes locked with Kristin’s. 

“Holy _shit_.” 

Kristin smiles. “You’re so quiet. I didn’t expect that.” 

“Sorry. I’m usually a lot more vocal.” 

“Do I take your breath away?” 

It’s a joke, but Idina’s dead serious when she says, “Yes.” 

It’s the last thing Kristin remembers before she’s consumed. Idina kisses her breathless, grinding their hips together before moving downward to let her lips graze over her neck, sweeping down her chest. She spends a little extra time on Kristin’s breasts, but Kristin can barely process any of it until Idina slides lower, her teeth catching on the edge of Kristin’s panties.

All of a sudden, she stops.

Kristin looks down, only to realize she’s wearing the pair with little cartoon puppies all over. Idina bites back her laughter, her lips spreading into a grin. 

“Hot,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Very hot.” 

Kristin buries her face in her hands to keep from laughing, shaking her head in a fit of embarrassment. 

“I wasn’t thinking.”

She feels Idina smile against her skin as she drops kisses on her hipbones, below her belly, anywhere she can reach. 

“I’m gonna get rid of these, okay?” 

Kristin nods, feeling the fabric slide down her legs and over her ankles, disappearing altogether before Idina returns, still giggling against her stomach.

It seems impossible that they can be laughing, that this can be so easy when they both know fully well how dangerous this is -- how quickly their lives could come crashing down around them now that they’ve given in. One wrong move and someone could know; a marriage could crumble; careers and identities and relationships permanently, irrevocably altered. They’re treading on thin ice but it can’t hold forever; one crack and they’d drown.

But here, now, with Idina smiling down at her, glowing and awestruck --

\-- It’s all Kristin can see. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this.” 

Kristin squirms, unaccustomed to such an honest assessment. 

“Like what?” 

“Just… you. Nothing else.”

Kristin feels her skin begin to heat up, self-conscious and exposed, but Idina kisses her through it, deep and thorough and resolute. Kristin first mistakes it for confidence until she realizes Idina’s using it to keep herself centered as she slides an unsteady hand between Kristin’s legs.

She starts a slow, careful rhythm, barely touching, but the heat of those fingers against her, _finally_ , makes Kristin feel drop-down drunk. 

Idina leans in, breathing hot against her neck. “What do you need?”

She can’t think. All the blood has rushed south.

“I -- I don’t know -- ”

“That’s okay.”

“This. I like this.” 

Idina smiles into her skin. “I like it too.”

She shifts her fingers only a couple times before she hits the spot that makes Kristin’s breath catch in her throat. Idina’s right there with her, taking her cues until Kristin loses the ability to focus. Her vision blurs, eyes rolling back into her head, her whole body spiraling into sensation. If Idina’s never done this, Kristin wouldn’t have guessed.

The rhythm falters and there’s a fingertip gliding lower, inward. Her eyes ask, and Kristin’s answer. Their shared gasp as Idina slides all the way inside almost convinces Kristin that they’re feeling the same thing, even though it’s impossible. 

The finger stills, curling gently, and Kristin squeaks. Idina falls forward against her, the words spilling into Kristin’s ear.  
  
“I’ve wanted to be inside you for so long.” 

It sends a spark of electricity to her center and Kristin can’t help arching into Idina’s hand, spreading her legs further -- but she manages to stay present, looking straight into Idina’s eyes.

“Then take me.” 

There are no more words, then. Reading each other’s eyes, bodies, cues -- they do it for a living; they figure it out. A second finger joins the first without warning and Kristin is completely lost, clinging tightly to keep Idina close, but there’s no need; Idina’s right there with her. Kristin’s on the edge all too soon, needing only that one extra push, and Idina seems to sense it. She looks at Kristin for a moment, kissing her once more -- and without slowing her fingers, she moves down between Kristin’s legs and dips in, closing her lips around the bundle of nerves and pressing her tongue to the center. 

Kristin’s already tipping over the edge before she’s processed what’s happening. Fire spreads through every nerve when Idina’s tongue swirls around her, sucking gently as her fingers curl tight inside, and this… _this_ … this is heaven. This is hell. This is everything in between and beyond. 

Afterwards, Idina holds her so close she can barely breathe. Kristin pillows her head in the junction of Idina’s neck and shoulder, their limbs wrapped tight as can be. Their skin is damp all over, glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, overheated and overwhelmed, but Kristin can’t bring herself to pull away.

She tries desperately to stay present, to simply relish this slice of ecstasy life has laid out in front of her -- but the thoughts come, too soon and too many.

Whether or not this happens again, if ever -- this doesn't belong to her. It will never. Still, she clings tighter to the woman in her arms, freezing the moment in her mind.

But the moment, truly, is surreal. Kristin’s never slept with someone without dating them first. It’s not religion; it’s protection. Sex is easy; she could get sex anywhere, anytime. But she wants more than that. There doesn’t have to be love, but there has to be trust, and Kristin’s trust is a rare commodity. It’s the one reason her partners have been few and far between.

She has no idea how she’s managed to trust Idina when, right now, she’s not even sure she trusts herself. 

“It’s okay,” Idina says, out of nowhere. “I’ve got you.”

 

-

 

Kristin assumes they’ll sleep eventually because they have to. The day's packed. They open tomorrow. No, it’s after midnight. Today. They open tryouts _today_ and she’s extremely naked in bed with her co-star. 

At two-something in the morning, drunk on sex, that is fucking hilarious. 

Idina looks down where Kristin’s giggling against her neck and smiles, dragging her fingertips down Kristin’s spine. “What?” 

“Mm. Nothing. You have…” Kristin moves down, biting gently, “ _exquisite_ collarbones.”

“Why thank you.”

“I wanna give you a hickey _so_ bad.” 

“Motherfucker, don’t you dare.” 

Kristin looks up, smiling deviously, and delivers a few gentle, teasing bites around her neck and chest. Nothing that would leave a mark, but enough to make Idina’s breath quicken, her hips lifting off the bed. In one swift move, she flips them over and straddles Kristin’s hips, pinning them to the mattress.

“I want to fuck you again.”

“Get in line,” Kristin responds, using her size to wriggle out of the hold and flip them back over, climbing on top as she slides one finger into tight, wet folds.

Kristin sees the shock in Idina’s eyes but Idina tries not to react, instead moving her own hand between Kristin’s legs and thrusting two fingers inside. The impact sends Kristin reeling forward, nearly flush with Idina’s chest, but she doesn’t falter. She ups her game and adds a second of her own, delving deeper until Idina can’t keep the pleasure out of her face any longer.

Kristin smiles against her lips. "Trying to top from the bottom?"

"Not trying. Succeeding."

Kristin laughs. She's always brought out Idina’s competitive side, and she’s more than a little pleased to find that hasn’t changed. 

They fall into a rhythm, kissing deep and thrusting deeper, slow and aching as they pull each other into ecstasy. Kristin figures out the angle she needs to press her thumb against the slick center, and it happens so fast -- Idina must’ve been so close already that it only takes a few moments of contact before she’s crying out, a string of expletives piercing the air. Her thrusts lose focus for a second but she bounces back, looking into Kristin’s eyes.

“Touch yourself,” she whispers, her free arm tightening around Kristin’s back. “Can’t get it from this angle.”

Kristin obliges, leaning up to press her own fingers between her legs. They’re already slick from where they’d been, and the thought alone is enough to get her there -- but the moment she touches herself, a third finger slides inside, overpowering everything else. Her vision goes fuzzy and nearly blacks out altogether as she spills over the edge. Idina anticipates the scream before it happens, pulling Kristin down and kissing her hard, swallowing the sound. 

This, Kristin realizes, is what Idina wanted -- to show her who’s in control. That it’s okay if, sometimes, Kristin isn’t. 

Kristin collapses against her, unable to support her own weight, and looks up into her eyes. 

“Isn’t that more of a… y’know… _second_ date kinda move?” 

Idina smiles, but briefly. As it fades, she strokes Kristin’s cheek, fingertips mapping each line.

“In case I don’t get another chance.” 

There’s no response Kristin can safely give. She has too many questions, but she doesn’t want the answers. Is it just tonight, then? That’s how it should be, right? If they take one more step over the line, it’s no longer a fleeting lapse in judgment. It becomes something else. Something with history and definition.

It becomes an affair. 

“What if you do?” Kristin says. 

Idina watches her, then pulls her in for a slow, searching kiss. They eventually settle on their sides, facing each other, until Kristin catches sight of the clock. 

“Oh my god, it’s three fifteen.”

“Shh, you’re hallucinating.” 

“Go to sleep.”

“Make me.”

“I kinda have this thing tomorrow night.” 

“Yeah?”

“You wanna come?” 

“Can’t. Busy.” 

They grin stupidly, and Kristin reaches below the sheet to take Idina’s hand. 

“Will you hold me until I fall asleep?” 

“You dumbass, I’m gonna hold you all night.”

Idina eases her over onto her other side, adjusting their bodies until she’s snugly moulded against Kristin’s back, one arm circling around her front. 

“Is your neck okay?” she asks. Kristin nods.

“Are you nervous?” Kristin asks after a moment. 

Silence convinces her Idina’s fallen asleep, until a soft sigh brushes over the back of her neck. 

“I’m terrified.” 

Kristin squeezes her hand in reassurance, but she wasn’t talking about the show. 

Just before she drifts off, she realizes Idina probably wasn’t, either.

 

+++

 

Kristin wakes up naked against warm, equally naked curves. A pair of breasts presses into her back, moving with the rise-and-fall waves of breath that sweep over her shoulder. One pale arm is pillowed under her neck, extended toward the edge of the bed, while another is wrapped around her torso, hand cradled tightly in both her own. She slowly detangles one hand, dragging her fingertips over scattered freckles along the forearm braced across her chest, before she feels a face bury further into the hair tangled at the base of her neck. There’s a nose nuzzling her skin, then lips, hot and soft and open against her shoulder. Unconsciously she pushes backward into the fevered skin between soft, sloping hipbones. 

Idina’s arm tightens around her, and freezes. 

She must be panicking now, wondering if Kristin’s going to bolt in the light of day. 

Kristin rolls over in her arms, barely making eye contact before pressing their lips together. The tension seeps from Idina’s embrace, her limbs turning to jelly as they seek out a deep, lazy rhythm between their tongues. When Kristin finally pulls away, all she wants to do is lean back in. 

It’s going to be a long day. 

Idina smiles, stroking up and down her arm. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” 

“You look like you did.” 

Kristin smiles back. “Do I?” 

Idina leans in, nuzzling her neck. “You’re positively glowing.”

She feels herself blush as Idina’s hand strays down from her arm and over her stomach, before the knock at the door jolts them into consciousness. 

Idina’s eyes widen as she presses up onto her elbows. “Who is it?” 

“Is Kristin in there?” Norbert’s voice calls.

Something heavy plummets from Kristin’s chest into her stomach and she stares at Idina, frozen. Idina keeps her face calm, mouthing _It’s okay_ with a look of pure confidence. There are a million reasons Kristin would be in here. They’re safe. 

“Who’s askin’?” Kristin calls to the door. 

“Joe wants to meet us at ten… what are you doing? Are you guys having sex?” 

Kristin panics, glancing at the clock as Idina rolls out of bed to dig for clothes. Nine forty-six.

“Yes!” Idina says brightly. “We’re scissoring _right now_.”

Kristin snorts into her hand, panic morphing to hysterical disbelief as she falls back to the bed, giggling.

“What?” Idina laughs, throwing a shirt at her. “That’s what women do together, right?” 

The giggles turn into coughing. Her brain tells her none of this is supposed to be funny until Idina tosses her a bottle of water along with a pair of underwear that isn’t hers. 

“Okay seriously,” Norbert calls, “what are you guys _doing_?” 

“Talking about our periods!” Idina yells, loud enough for the entire hotel. “Go away!” 

“Oh jeez,” Norbert mumbles. “Hurry up.”

Kristin is laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath. Clothes keep falling onto her chest as Idina rifles through the mess on the floor, scrambling to make herself decent. Kristin reaches out, tugging at the jeans Idina’s just buttoned up until she topples back onto the bed. 

“Hey!” 

Kristin pulls her down for a kiss. “You’re amazing.” 

Idina grins. “Maybe _I’ll_ win the Tony this time.” 

“I’ll fight you for it.” 

“Counting on it.”

 

+++

 

The day leaves no mental room for personal agendas. Kristin manages to forget the entire night for minutes at a time, as long as Idina’s out of sight. It floods back into her head with a vengeance at less than opportune moments, most notably when the crowd rises to their feet and Idina takes her hand under the spotlight.

She slips out of the after-party with no clue where they stand, catches Idina’s eye and leaves it at that. 

Idina finds her down the lobby hallway, waiting for the elevators. They share a smile and keep to opposite sides as it climbs the floors, stopping at five. The door pings open and Idina looks over at her. Kristin looks back. She’s certain, somehow, that this isn’t her decision. 

Idina glances at the door, and back to her. “You coming?” 

Kristin’s eyes fall to the buttons lined up on the wall and notices five is the only one lit. 

“I forgot to hit seven,” she realizes aloud. 

“Oh.” 

Idina’s face turns blank as she lifts her hand and reaches for the button. Kristin extends an arm, stopping her, and their eyes lock. 

The door closes, suspending them where they are. Without looking away, Idina’s hand reaches lower, pressing “open”. When she steps out, Kristin follows. 

Inside the room, Kristin kicks off her shoes, leans back along the wall and lets herself breathe for the first time since she was last here. Idina’s shadow slumps against the door beside her, her head rolling sleepily to the side. Kristin can make out a smile in the moonlight. 

“We did it.” 

Kristin shakes her head in joyous relief, resting her face in her palms. “That’s never happened to me before.”

“What?”  
  
She looks over at Idina in the dark, tears brimming in her eyes. “They _stood up_. Everyone.” 

Idina’s smile widens. “In the thee-ay-ter we call that a standing ovation, sweetheart.” 

Kristin bats weakly at her arm, feeling the exhaustion straining her muscles. 

“Kristin, you were _incredible_.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” 

Idina laughs. 

“But,” Kristin says, “I’m not the one they stood for.” 

“What the -- were you even _there_?” 

“I was. You were flawless.” 

Idina ducks her head, smiling at the floor, and Kristin wishes it weren’t so dark. Idina’s getting better at taking compliments but still pretty crap at it, and it’s so, so stupidly adorable.

Kristin summons her last shred of energy and reaches out for Idina’s hand, giving it a light tug. Idina takes it as a request, pushing herself off the door and hovering in front of Kristin. Her free hand flattens against the wall beside Kristin’s head but she doesn’t lean in, doesn’t press her hips forward. They simply breathe in tandem, feeling the promise of warmth. 

Kristin sighs, stretching upward until Idina meets her halfway and their foreheads touch.

“I don’t know what…”

“Me neither.”

“Should we just…”  
  
“I don’t know.” 

“I should go to my room.” 

“I know.” 

“Are we insane?”  
  
“Yes.” 

Kristin’s free hand comes up, splaying over Idina’s heart. It’s not racing, but it’s getting there. Idina’s fingers twist in her other hand, entwining and releasing and rejoining, gentle but dangerously arousing. 

“Kristin.” 

“Can you please just be kissing me now?” 

Idina’s mouth is on hers before the last word is out. It’s not reckless or hurried. It’s reverent and giving and slow, sleepy and needy and a dozen other things Kristin doesn’t dare define. Idina takes her other hand and they stand like that, hands joined at their sides as Idina’s hips sway forward and Kristin’s lift off the wall to meet them. Eventually they stumble awkwardly to the bed, collapsing without finesse before facing one another on their sides. 

As they lean back in, Idina pulls back suddenly, her mouth spreading into a yawn. Kristin starts to laugh at her until she remembers it’s contagious. 

“I am so fucking tired.” 

Kristin smiles. “Me too.” 

“This ain’t happening tonight.”  
  
“Nope.” 

“Help me get outta this thing.”

Idina rolls over and Kristin carefully brushes her hair out of the way, tugging the zipper down the length of her spine, only pausing for a moment to drag a fingertip down the sliver of newly exposed skin. Idina shivers and sits up to shimmy out of the dress as Kristin yanks her own over her head, climbing up to her side of the bed. She knows, she knows she’s not supposed to have a side but she’s too tired to think and they’re only sleeping anyway. 

Idina cuddles up close, wrapping herself around Kristin’s frame and laying her head on the bare swell of Kristin’s chest. Her hair is everywhere and Kristin smoothes it down, breathing in the scent. In a beam of light, she can see a stubborn streak of green at the hairline. 

“You’re so tiny,” Idina whispers, giving her waist a squeeze. 

“I’ve been told.”  
  
“Are you sniffing me?”

“Mmhmm. You have good sniffs.” 

“So do you.” 

“Yeah?”  
  
“Mm. You smell like honey.” Kristin feels something wet at the side of her breast, followed by a kiss. “Taste like it too.” 

Kristin can’t stop her body from reacting, her hips lifting just slightly off the bed as she lets out a sigh. Idina giggles triumphantly against her skin, and Kristin pinches her side.  
  
“Go to sleep, perv.” 

Idina nestles closer in response and Kristin holds her tight, staring up at the ceiling. She doesn’t catch herself smiling until her face begins to hurt.

  
  
+++

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Even if this doesn't belong to her tomorrow, it damn well belongs to her now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this chapter accomplished is that now I really want to go [here](http://www.napavalleylodge.com/) while listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbjZPFBD6JU).

 

_______________

 

Kristin shoves her phone back under the pillow and slinks carefully out of bed, trying not to jostle the lump of hair and blankets beside her. She debates for a moment which would look stranger if she runs into anyone -- her dress from the night before or NYU sweatpants, and opts for the latter before yanking a generic-looking t-shirt over her head and scanning the nightstand for her earrings. 

“You leavin’?” 

She turns to see Idina halfway up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The bright light makes her squint and pout and she doesn’t look a day past five. Kristin spares her a smile before turning to the mirror. 

“Stephen wants me there at ten. One less-than-five-star review and we’re already changing keys.” She rolls her eyes, poking the other earring in before searching the desk for a ponytail holder with one hand and pulling her stilettos on with the other. “Hate to see what kinda tantrum they’ll throw if we really get slammed. Check your phone.” 

Idina does, groaning instantly before collapsing back into the sheets. “I gotta be there at eleven.” 

“Lucky.” 

“I’ll bring coffee.” 

“Bring vodka. Can I borrow this?” 

She gives up on the ponytail holder and snatches a knit beanie from the chair, fitting it over the nest of hair she’s gathered on top of her head, and makes a mental note to give extra shower time to the racoon eyes her mascara so generously bestowed upon her overnight. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Idina climbing out of bed, pulling on a tank top and the nearest pair of underwear (Kristin’s) and crossing the room to stand beside her, leaning against the edge of the desk. 

She smiles as Kristin struggles to adjust the hat. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Are you sleepwalking?" 

Idina leans in, trailing her fingertips over the bare skin of Kristin’s hip that’s peeking out over the top of her pants, and hooks one finger under the waistband. 

“You... are _beautiful_.” 

Kristin’s momentum grinds to a halt as she turns, meeting Idina’s eyes. They’re sparkling. They’re vibrant. They make her knees turn to useless mush. 

For her. That look is for Kristin. She still can’t wrap her head around it.

Her body melts into the touch, inching forward until their hips meet and their noses brush, nuzzling softly. Her hands skim up Idina’s sides, eliciting a shiver. 

“What on earth are we doing?” she whispers. 

“Touching. Just touching.” 

“And what if I kissed you?” 

“Then we’d be kissing.” 

“And what if I…” 

She slides her hand lower and Idina gasps, her balance faltering. Kristin smiles and places a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips. 

“I gotta go.”  
  
“See you tonight?” 

“You’ll see me in an hour.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Kristin stares at her, hoping against the odds that something in Idina’s eyes will make sense out of this, will spew forth the answers or at least coax one out of the web that’s spinning rapidly around them. But all she sees is the elegant swirl of green and brown and, behind it, a fierce battle raging between need and fear. 

Kristin squeezes her hand. “I gotta go.” 

Idina nods and Kristin heads for the door. She gives the doorknob a firm twist and tug before immediately letting go, spinning around and marching across the room to take Idina’s face in her hands and crash their mouths together. The four-inch heels give her enough leverage to claim the upper hand, pressing Idina back into the desk with her hips and taking control of the kiss until their lungs are begging for air. 

Idina looks more than a tad stunned when they separate, rightfully so, but the vibrance has returned to her eyes, full force. 

“Good morning,” she says, breathless. 

Kristin grins at her, winks, and walks out.

 

-

 

It’s simple: a quick call to room service while Idina’s de-greening. She slides her spare keycard into a plain white envelope she stole from the box office, stuffs it in Idina’s purse, and makes her way to the stage door. There is no note, simply an instruction written neatly on the outside in pink Sharpie. 

_Open at midnight._

 

-

 

Every element feels more inappropriate than the last when Kristin surveys the room at 11:45. She can justify the cupcake and the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket, but the strawberries suggest something else. The scented candles practically demand it. 

She doesn’t let herself spend long in front of the mirror; just a ten-minute date with her curling iron and a light dab of shadow and mascara. Her skin’s already suffering from the daily dose of character makeup and besides, if she tries too hard, Idina will make fun of her. Even the dress is too much, if nothing fancy -- just a tiny black number that shows off her tits -- but hell, if she’s doing this, she might as well do it right. 

When the lock clicks open at 12:01, the look on Idina’s face tells her she did. 

Her jaw drops as her eyes scan the room before settling on Kristin. Both hands come up to her face, fingers pressing over her lips in surprise. A smile spreads behind her hands, lighting up her eyes. 

“Happy birthday.” 

Idina lowers her hands, curls them into fists over her heart, and honest-to-god blushes. 

“I know they’re probably doing a cake and stuff tomorrow, but I wanted to be the first to say it.” 

Still no response, Idina simply reaches out for her, and Kristin steps closer, joining their hands and swinging them gently back and forth. 

“I just… everything’s so crazy and busy and I just figured you should have… y’know… a second to catch your breath.” 

“How am I supposed to catch my breath when you’re wearing _that_?” 

Kristin raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She pulls away and grabs the solitary birthday candle off the table, lighting it on the jar of Midsummer’s Night before stuffing it carefully into the cupcake. “I ain’t singin’, so make a wish.”

Idina smiles and blows it out, clouding them in smoke. She nibbles on a strawberry in between bites of cupcake as Kristin attempts to wrestle open the champagne, refusing all three offers of help until the cork goes flying across the room and smashes into wall before bouncing off the bedside lamp. Idina’s cackling as she grabs a towel off the back of the chair, wrapping it around the overflowing bottle and lifting it out of Kristin’s champagne-soaked hands, which Kristin wipes on the other end of the towel, looking sheepish. 

“Points for effort.”

“Hey, at least _I_ provide glasses, unlike one hostess who will remain nameless.” 

Idina smirks and takes a gulp from the bottle instead. “Deja vu.” 

Kristin smiles slowly. They’ve never talked about it. They don’t talk about any of this. Talking is an acknowledgment, and look where acknowledgments have landed them. 

She takes a large swig of her own, handing back the bottle, but Idina takes it, places it firmly on the table and looks Kristin in the eye. 

“Thank you.”

Kristin waves her off. “It was nothing.” 

“It’s perfect.” 

“I think we’re missing a fireplace and some Norah Jones.” 

Idina laughs softly as their bodies gravitate closer, her arms snaking around Kristin’s waist as Kristin lifts hers to drape around Idina’s neck. It’s too easy, how they fit -- just enough height difference to master all the classic positions and then some. 

Idina leans in but doesn’t go for a kiss, her cheek brushing against Kristin’s as she sings softly into her ear, “ _Come away with me in the night_ …” 

Kristin giggles, melting into her as Idina starts to sway their bodies back and forth, quietly crooning the verse as she nuzzles the side of Kristin’s face. It’s the first time Idina’s sung for her -- not for work, not for an audience -- for her, privately. That raw, open voice for her ears only, soft as a secret.

It only spans a few seconds in the billions that will make up her life, but one day, she’ll remember this. It’s one of those moments that will haunt her years later, long after everything has fallen apart, when she’s alone in her room with damp, flushed cheeks and two pills she swore she’d never use for this, sticky inside her closed fist. 

But that’s then, and this is now, and now is when Idina’s voice trails off; now is when their lips find each other and they’re kissing like they’ve kissed for years, already acquainted with the angles that fit, the slight swipe of a tongue that can reduce the other to gasps, tiny moans and blurred vision. 

Idina’s hands roam languidly, not demanding but exploring, until her fingers start to slide up underneath Kristin’s dress, and she freezes. She breaks their kiss and looks at her, wide-eyed. 

Kristin smiles. “You didn’t like the last pair, so I figured maybe I just shouldn’t wear any.” 

Idina stares at her for another moment, then her lips are back, crashing in, and there’s air beneath Kristin’s feet. She wraps her legs around Idina’s waist until she’s deposited gently on the bed, laid out with Idina moving against her, with her, peppering her neck and chest with kisses. 

“I’m gonna take that as an invitation,” Idina breathes against her skin, and begins making her way quickly down Kristin’s body, stopping only to adjust her position and push Kristin’s dress up over her hips.

“Hey, hang on -- ” Kristin protests, reclaiming her brain enough to prop herself on her elbows. “It’s _your_ birthday.” 

Idina looks up where she’s poised between Kristin’s legs, her tongue swiping absently across her lips. “So I get whatever I want?”  
  
“Exactly.” 

“Good.” 

Without missing a beat she dips her head, curling her hands around Kristin’s thighs, and Kristin feels everything at once -- mouth, lips, tongue, dissolving hot against her core, sending sparks through her whole body before she’s even registered the act. 

Kristin allows this to happen so rarely she always forgets what it feels like, but Idina’s so much better than anyone before that in a single instant, she finally realizes what it’s _supposed_ to feel like. It’s so, so impossibly _good_ that she’s afraid to move her hips, but when they inevitably lift on their own, Idina simply moans against her and licks her open, deeper and wetter. She’s afraid to let her fingers tangle in Idina’s hair, but when they gravitate there, Idina’s quick to bring her own hand up to join them, closing them around the strands until Kristin’s bold enough to grip on her own. Idina stops only once, looking up at her with slick, swollen red lips to say, “Don’t hold back, not with me,” and Kristin begins to unravel.

Idina is brilliant, impossibly. She knows everything Kristin needs before Kristin does; she is the _perfect_ lover for her and it’s so blatantly obvious now that Kristin can’t believe it took them so long to get here. 

It takes precisely one millionth of that time for her to remember why -- but even if this doesn’t belong to her tomorrow, it damn well belongs to her now _._  

By the end, Idina’s hand finds hers and they curl tightly together over the edge of Kristin’s hipbone, slippery with sweat, but neither lets go. Idina holds her through it, rides out the waves with her until Kristin can’t even tell if she’s crying out or just crying. Her eyes squeeze shut, Idina is all around her, and in this stolen scrap of time, the world makes sense.

 

-

 

They’re still and silent for a full minute before Kristin takes in the sight of her rumpled dress, Idina’s David Bowie t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts, and bursts out laughing. Idina jumps, lifting her head from where it had been peacefully cradled against Kristin’s lower belly. 

“You’re laughing. Why. Why are you laughing.” 

“I’m sorry!” Kristin squeals between giggles. “I’m sorry -- it’s just -- I just had the best orgasm of my life and we’re both fully dressed.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Idina counters, crawling up her body with one hand lingering between Kristin’s legs, “ _someone_ was missing a key piece, if I -- wait, the best of your _life?_ ” 

Kristin shrugs as Idina settles in beside her, stroking up and down her arm. “I don’t… do… that. Often.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s just… feels like giving up power. Plus none of them were really that good… and they always act like it’s this grand gesture, y’know? Giving _us_ pleasure for once.” 

“I assure you, my dear, the pleasure was all mine.” 

“I assure you, it most certainly was _not_.” She smiles, letting Idina bask in her own success. “How did you _learn_ that?” 

“Googled it.” 

The giggles are back with a vengeance, but Kristin can’t help it. It’s so like Idina, researching thoroughly before taking anything on; Kristin can picture her with a notebook and a highlighter and post-its, just like rehearsal, and it only makes her laugh harder.  
  
“Yeah? Is that funny?” Idina climbs over her, straddling her hips and tickling her sides. “Weren’t laughing a minute ago, were ya?” 

Kristin tries to swat her hands away but Idina’s stronger, grabbing both of Kristin’s hands in one and pinning them over her head, nestling her face into Kristin’s neck.

“By the way...” she purrs as her free hand dips down between Kristin’s legs, quickly slipping one finger easily inside before bringing it to her mouth. Their eyes lock as Idina closes her lips around the tip, sucking gently. “You taste incredible.”

Kristin must react visibly because Idina smiles, looking overly pleased with herself. Kristin wrestles her hands free, pulls her down and kisses the smugness off her lips, her tongue delving deep inside to see for herself. It’s not half bad, but it’s not herself she’s aching to taste. 

“Show me,” she says when they separate. “Show me how.”

Idina raises an eyebrow, considering. She pulls herself up, sitting cross-legged, and tugs Kristin up beside her, reaching for her hand. 

“Full disclosure,” she holds Kristin’s hand in both of hers, gently turning it over, “I’ve wanted to do this to your fingers for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit.”

“I’m _scandalized_.” 

“Good.” She firms her grip a bit, lifting Kristin’s hand to her lips. “Um, pretty much anything’s gonna feel awesome. But…” She extends Kristin’s index finger, darting her tongue out for an experimental lick, “if you want to get me off… you gotta get a rhythm going. You can start by swirling your tongue around, just tight little circles…” She does just that, grinning as Kristin’s other hand clenches in the sheets. “Or, if you like what I was doing, which I’m pretty sure you did… you can take it between your lips, like this… and suck, just a little, really soft, using your tongue on the tip.” 

Kristin watches her, feels her, hazy and lost, the sensations sending one jolt after another to her core, until Idina lets the finger slide from her lips with a _pop_. 

“Takes a little practice, but…” 

Kristin lunges forward, assaulting her mouth as her fingers scramble at the button on Idina’s shorts. Talking is done. 

In the end it’s surprising, only in how it’s not. Everything looks and tastes enough like her own that she feels at home, but with just enough contrast to send chills down her spine; the innate newness of it all is nothing short of a blinding thrill, and if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, Idina doesn’t seem to care. She’s half gone from the beginning, giving a few gentle, absent-minded directions but mostly letting Kristin take her wherever she pleases until it starts to build, when Idina plummets from sure and controlled to a babbling mess of incoherent surrender. Her fingers weave through Kristin’s hair but scarcely touch, trembling to keep from pulling too hard, and Kristin can only make out a few occasional syllables -- _yes_ and _God_ and _fuck_ and at the end, _baby_ , though she could’ve imagined it -- and it’s over, and Idina’s pulling at her desperately until they’re chest to chest, heaving and flushed. 

Kristin lifts her head after a moment, just to watch her come down. Idina simply stares at her, mouth open and pupils wide, trying to find her breath. Kristin wants to say a dozen things and she’s not even sure what they are, only that she’s not allowed to say them.

Idina kisses her, once, and guides her head back down to rest against her chest. 

None of the men Kristin's been with were much into cuddling. She's trained herself not to need it, to make the most of the contact she gets during the action. But Idina wraps her arms around her like vines and holds her like she's got nowhere else to be in the world. When the silence breaks, Idina tells her _You’re gorgeous_ , tells her _You’re amazing_ , but everything sounds too much like the things they can’t say. She strokes Kristin's hair, kisses the side of her head, traces shapes on her shoulder, never allowing more than a sliver of space to slip between their bodies. 

Kristin wills herself not to get used to it, as if her will has a shred of power left.

 

+++

 

There is a giant bouquet of roses and a lifesize teddy bear in Idina’s dressing room when Kristin stops by after makeup. She stares at it, and Idina stares at her, looking apologetic for no legitimate reason.

"Oh my gosh." Kristin pulls a winning smile from her stash. “What a sweetheart.” 

Idina shrugs. “He’s just overcompensating. He kinda forgot last year.” 

“Want me to slap him?”

Idina smiles awkwardly, and Kristin mentally slaps herself instead. As if fucking his wife behind his back isn’t punishment enough and then some. 

Kristin slips from the room, clutching the stem of her bejeweled wand tightly in her hand and doesn’t think about being kissed awake at eight o’clock that morning by a married woman naked in her bed.

 

+++

 

“What if it’s a sign?” 

Idina stops where she’s adjusting pillows on the suddenly inadequate hotel bed, trying to stack them the way the doctor advised. “What?”

“This.” Kristin tugs uncomfortably at the neck brace, scrunching her face. It’s itchy, couldn’t they make one that isn’t _itchy_? 

Idina’s face turns cold. “A sign of what?” 

“That we… shouldn’t…” 

“Kristin, we don’t need a fucking _sign_ to tell us we shouldn’t.” 

It’s the first time Idina’s ever admitted to this, to its wrongness. The honesty just makes Kristin want her more. 

They’re already in this, after all. Why stop now?

Idina sighs, crossing the room and cradling Kristin’s face in her hands, bending her knees so they’re face to face, so Kristin doesn’t have to look up. Her hands are warm but Kristin can feel the slight bump of her rings, the contrast of cool metal on the overstressed heat of her skin. 

“Tell me what to do,” Idina says.

Kristin closes her eyes and swallows all the words she should say.

“Stay with me,” she says instead. 

Idina finishes fixing the pillows and all but carries Kristin to bed before setting the prescription and a bottle of water on the nightstand. She cuddles close and holds Kristin’s hand as the Percocet kicks in, trickling through her veins until the pain starts to melt. It feels wonderful -- no, it feels like ecstasy, or what she’d imagine it to be. She feels light and heavy at once, drunker than drunk but higher than sober. 

She’s aware of a smile stretching across her lips and the filter between her brain and her tongue beginning to dissolve. 

“Dee.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Are you falling in love with me?” 

There’s silence for so long that Kristin starts to wonder if she’s fallen asleep herself, or if the words even left her lips.

“Go to sleep, Kristi.” 

Idina’s voice is small and choked. Kristin won’t remember it in the morning. That, she will learn, is Percocet’s reigning feature.

 

+++

 

“I am going to sleep,” Norbert announces, his arm draped lazily over Kristin’s shoulders as they shuffle through the bowels of the Curran for the last time, half the cast traipsing behind and half already bolting ahead. “I am hanging the little thingie on my door, I am sleeping all night, and all day tomorrow. Anyone who knocks on my door will be shot on sight. Automatically. I’m setting up a boobytrap tonight.” 

“Same,” Kristin says. 

“Same,” Idina echoes, her fingers subtly brushing Kristin’s before she squeezes past, shoots them a smile and heads out the door. 

Michelle grins as Norbert’s other arm reaches out and tugs her close. “You said booby.”

 

-

 

“Wake up. We have to go.”

Kristin blinks her way into consciousness. Idina’s kneeling beside the bed, smiling at her, showered and dressed. Kristin squints at the clock and groans. 

“Where?” 

“Somewhere.” 

“It’s our day _off_ …” 

“I know.” 

“It’s our _last_ day off...”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“We’re supposed to be _sleeping_ …” 

“Come with me. You can sleep in the car.” 

Kristin’s eyes open fully. Idina’s totally serious. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Come with me.”

 

-

 

The Proclaimers blare through the rental car speakers as a blur of California landscape speeds by, turning greener by the minute. They last all the way to "500 Miles" before Idina reminds her they’re no longer on vocal rest, cranks the volume, and belts it out. 

They fall into harmony easily. Never one to settle for easy, Kristin drums up a Scottish accent and slips into her most dramatic bel canto for the chorus as Idina stumbles over the words in a fit of laughter. She claims the first “da-d-da-da” and Kristin takes the second, an octave higher, until Idina releases one hand from the wheel to clap over Kristin’s mouth as the song rolls to a close. Kristin giggles and pulls it away, cradling it in her lap. 

“Won’t they wonder where we are?” 

“Dude, no one’s talking to _anyone_ today.” 

“Michelle’ll figure it out. She’ll be so pissed.” 

“We’ll bring her some cabernet, she’ll live.”

Kristin opens her mouth to question, when the first sign for Napa comes into view. She makes a little noise in her throat and bounces in her seat, squeezing Idina’s hand. Idina smiles at the horizon and curls her fingers around Kristin’s thigh, tracing circles over her jeans. A beam of light pours through the sunroof, drawing out the deep auburn traces in her hair until it glimmers almost as bright as her smile, and Kristin can’t look away.

 

-

 

Kristin assumes they’re lost when Idina parks the Audi in front of some resort in the heart of the valley. Seclusion and silence reign supreme over lush greenery and rolling hills that stretch for miles in every direction. It’s gorgeous, but everything here is, and this looks like the kind of gorgeous that requires advanced notice. 

“What are we doing here?” Kristin asks, pushing her door shut and stretching her arms over her head. 

“Hmm, hang on.” Idina fishes a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket and flattens it in her hands. “Private limo tour and tasting starts in an hour, so we can start with coffee and then they’ll take us around the vineyard and some of the nearby areas… come back, change, sober up. Dinner reservations are at seven, so we can hit up the spa before then, or the pool, or…” She looks up briefly, smirking, “...explore the room. There’s a champagne breakfast in the morning, so don’t get too wasted tonight. Ooh, and free cookies at three.” 

Kristin stares at her in disbelief. Slowly, she walks around the car to where Idina’s standing with her hip cocked to the side, waiting for a reaction. 

“You planned this?” 

Idina shrugs, grinning in response. 

“Tomorrow -- our flights -- ” 

“I know. We’re just here overnight.” 

“I -- I didn’t even bring any clothes…” 

Idina lifts up the canvas bag at her feet, still grinning. “Yes you did.” 

Kristin takes a moment to absorb it all, shaking her head. This isn’t a spontaneous day trip. This is the culmination of a seduction that began months ago on a Manhattan rooftop. By this point, Kristin isn’t even sure who did the seducing. 

“All this -- you -- Idina, oh my God.” 

Idina looks down, discreetly reaching for Kristin’s hand and rubbing her palm. They both instinctively glance around, but there’s not a soul in sight. It’s probably the last time they’ll ever be safe. 

“I won’t be able to do it next month, so… happy early birthday?” 

Kristin considers the words. _I won’t be able to do it_ \-- not because they won’t be in California. Because they won’t be together. 

They’re not, though. They’re not _together_ , even now -- even if it feels otherwise when she throws her arms around Idina’s neck for a bone-crushing hug.

 

-

 

“Only you could get drunk from a wine tasting.”

“It wasn’t the wine!” Kristin pouts, poking her in the side, which, admittedly, is not a very nice thing to do to someone who’s helping you down the stairs. 

“Oh, right,” Idina grins, “someone just _had_ to order a double martini at the pool.” 

“They _offered_ , it would’ve been rude to turn it down.” 

“Uh-huh. Do you remember your name?” 

“Of course I remember my name, silly.” 

“What is it?” 

“Mm… Kristi Dawn. But they almost named me Daisy.” 

Idina bursts out laughing. 

“Don’t make fun of my name!” 

“It’s not your name!”

“I’d be a cute lil’ Daisy.” 

“Yes, you would. But I’m really glad you’re not.” 

“Oh my God, it's so weird! Isn't it _so_ weird?!” 

“What?” 

“You dropped a letter from your name and I added one!” 

“...Actually, yeah, that _is_ weird.”

“I _knowww_! It's like fate! Like we were meant to be together.” 

Idina stops a few paces from the restaurant door, meeting her eyes. “We’re not together.” 

“We're together right now.” 

Idina’s face melts, and even with the buzz, Kristin knows she’s got her. She smiles, wobbling a bit, and Idina’s quick to steady her.

“You really are a lightweight, aren’t you? I swear I didn’t mean to get you drunk.” 

“I’m not that drunk. I can still hit the F6!” 

She opens her mouth to demonstrate but Idina’s hand is lightning fast, clapping over her lips. 

“That’s not a motor skill, you nerd.”

Kristin smiles wickedly and kisses her palm before prying it away. “I know another one that is.” 

Idina’s eyes glaze over, then snap out of it. 

“Come on, baby, let’s get you some food.”

She starts leading them forward but Kristin’s got her hand and she stays planted to the spot, leaving Idina to spin around, tumbling back into her space. 

Kristin smiles. “You called me _baby_.” 

“No I didn’t, you’re drunk.”

She looks away, but Kristin isn’t that drunk.

 

-

 

Dinner sobers her up. More accurately, Idina sobers her up, with five carefully selected courses, lemon water, and a double espresso. 

They walk back to the suite arm in arm, less for necessity and more for pure, uncomplicated need. Chocolate ganache lingers on her tongue, and when Idina gets close, Kristin can smell strawberries. Maybe it’s just a memory; she’s not sure if there were strawberries tonight, since all she remembers from the last two hours is the way Idina’s eyes looked in the light.

“Come here,” Idina says when they’ve kicked off their shoes, taking Kristin’s hand and leading her across the room. 

She slides open the door to the private terrace, pulling Kristin down with her onto the plush cushions of an oversized bench. The view at night is spectacular: moonlight shimmering over the vineyard’s rows, the warm breeze coaxing life from every leaf the light happens to touch. Kristin settles close against Idina’s side, breathing it in.

“It’s perfect.” 

“Look.” 

Idina extends her arm, pointing to the sky. Kristin follows the line of her outstretched finger and forgets to breathe. 

The sky is alive. Everywhere she looks, something’s twinkling, in rows or patterns or scattered without rhyme or reason. Every star she remembers from thousands of miles away is here, right over her head. 

Somehow, none of them seem to compare to the woman who got her here. 

Idina smiles. “Now you can see the stars.” 

The only thing Kristin can think to do is crawl over into her lap, tangle her hands in Idina’s hair and hold her close, forehead to forehead. 

“No one’s ever done anything like this for me.” 

“Then I seriously think you should reconsider your taste in partners.” 

Kristin leans back, searching her eyes. “Why did you bring me here?” 

Idina stares at her. Her lips part, and close again. They both know the answer. This has gone unspoken for a month, generously allowing them to exist in their California bubble and pretend the rest of life isn’t looming on the other side of the country, but it’s over now. Their time is up. 

Idina averts her eyes, staring somewhere around Kristin’s shoulder as her hand comes up to toy absently with the neckline of Kristin’s shirt. 

“I just wanted to remember it like this.” 

Something inside Kristin cracks. The pieces hold, but they’ll never fit quite the same way. She blinks back the sting behind her eyes and waits until Idina looks at her again, somehow guarded and open all at once. 

“You’ve treated me better than anyone else ever has.”

Idina smiles. “I’m still going to treat you the same.” 

“I know.” 

She leans back in, letting their heads touch. Idina’s hands have slipped under her shirt and are drawing patterns on her back, hypnotic and soothing. There’s no other motive behind it, just comfort, and it amazes her to realize she can tell the difference. She wonders how many touches it took to tell each one apart; how many times they’ve brought each other to the brink and beyond, how many times they’ve kissed. It’s better that she can’t hope to measure any of it. For all she knows, they’re infinite. 

Her lips find Idina’s ear, ghosting softly over the shell. 

“Come to bed.” 

Idina’s hips react and her hands tense against Kristin’s skin, but Kristin doesn’t expect her to sit up and hold her at a distance, far enough that they’ve both got a crystal clear view of each other’s face. It’s dark, but not too dark to see what matters.

“Kristin.”

The tone, the inflection, the volume and her eyes say it all. Kristin hears the confession even before it begins. 

“I think I’m…” 

But it doesn’t finish. It dangles in the air, deafening in the silence as Idina thinks better of it, swallows the knot in her throat and simply leans in, pressing their lips together. 

It finishes in the kiss. Their lips never break contact as Idina lifts them off the bench, carrying her back inside. The door stays open, leaving them with the stars and the breeze beneath the sounds that pass between them. They move until their bodies give out and they settle into stillness, but sleep is scarce. They’re already up when the sun starts to bring out the green in Idina’s eyes, and they don’t say a word.

 

-

 

Idina’s alarm goes off at seven. When she doesn’t move to shut it off, Kristin leans over to do it herself. Idina reaches for her and pulls her down to lie flush against her chest. 

In the shower, Idina holds her from behind, letting the water wash everything away for the last time. Kristin finally lets the tears fall, under the stream, because Idina can’t see.

 

-

 

On the drive back, Idina makes a detour at the beach. They’ve only got twenty minutes, but Kristin finds an unbroken shell and tucks it into her pocket, squishing the sand beneath her toes, and when their hands inevitably brush, she doesn’t pull away.

 

-

 

They’re on different flights and Idina’s leaves an hour earlier -- nothing short of a miracle that spares Kristin the sight of her running into someone else’s arms when they land. 

Their last kiss takes place in a single-stall bathroom between terminals. It smells too much like air freshener and the fluorescent lights are triggering a migraine, but Idina’s lips are warm and she smells like shampoo and Kristin would drag it out forever if she could.

 

-

 

Baggage claim is emptier than usual but Kristin still struggles to navigate, scanning the carousels for her flight number. There’s supposed to be someone here, she knows they sent a car, but for now she’ll take whatever solitude she can get.

“Do I need to start wearing neon or something?” 

Kristin spins halfway around to see Denny standing beside her bright magenta suitcase, holding a single tulip and beaming.

One choked sound of surprise and she’s in his arms. He easily lifts her off her feet as she clings tight, forcing back the tears. There’s nothing in the world she’d needed right now more than this: a safe embrace she doesn’t have to hide, loving and simple. More than once she’s convinced herself she doesn’t deserve this man in any capacity, but he seems content to spend the rest of their lives proving her wrong.

“Whoa, hey, still gay.”

Kristin laughs, sniffling as she releases her vice grip around his neck and lets him set her on the ground. Her hands swipe quickly over her eyes but it’s too late.

“What, no -- what is this? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She smiles, a little surprised she doesn’t have to fake it. “I’m just really, really happy you’re here.”

“Rough month?” 

“You have no idea.”

“You need food.”

“Oh God, I do.” 

“Real food, not that hippie West Coast shit.” 

“Taco Bell.” 

He makes a noise of contempt. “I really must love you.”  
  
“Yes,” Kristin smiles, clinging to his arm as he reaches for her suitcase with the other, tugging it along behind them. “Yes, you must.”

 

-

 

He spends half a chalupa staring at her with the utmost scrutiny before Kristin even realizes it -- but by that time, his eyes have already gone wide.  
  
“What?” Kristin mumbles between mouthfuls. 

“You had sex.” 

She chokes on the next bite, setting the rest of it down. “No I didn’t.” 

“You got so seriously laid, honey.” 

“I did not!” 

“Oh my God, it must be scandalous if you’re lying about it.” 

He’s grinning like a madman. This is the downside of lifelong friendship. Even when you’re hiding, you can’t. 

“ _Fine_ ,” she groans, collapsing against the plush back of his sofa. “I had sex. You happy?” 

“Really?!” 

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s been known to happen occasionally.” 

“So, who?” 

“Nope.”

“Oh come on! Is he in the show? Was it Norbert?”

“What, no!” 

“Oh. Then can I have him?” 

Kristin chuckles, taking a swig of her Coke. “You’ll have to fight Michelle for it.”  
  
“Ooh, really?” 

“Yeah, just a matter of time there.” 

“Ugh, fine, _tell me_.” 

Kristin sits up, taking his hand. “Sweetie, I really can’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” 

He looks genuinely offended, and she can’t blame him. They’ve never kept so much as a stolen kiss from each other, let alone sex that was apparently so good it’s still visibly radiating from her aura. 

He huffs, grabbing his drink. “The Westies changed you. I don’t like it.” 

“It’s not that. And it’s nothing to do with you, I just can’t tell anyone. Please don’t make me.”

He spares her a halfhearted smile. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” 

“Are you okay, though?” 

“I’m…” 

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she digs it out, scanning the screen. Her heart skips a beat. 

“Who’s that?” 

“Hm? It’s Idina. Hang on.” 

She collects herself, staring at a corner of the screen before lowering her eyes to the text. 

 _Can’t sleep. Found rocky road in the freezer. Missing you in my arms._  

Her skin instantly warms, her heartbeat rising. The grin takes over her lips before she lifts her fingers to her mouth, trying her best to conceal it. She steels her face and types a response. 

 _You’re making me blush._  

The reply is quick: _Still on Pacific time so we’re allowed._  

 _In that case,_ she writes, _I’m missing you in a few other places too._  

 _Now I'm blushing._  

Kristin snaps her phone shut. She can’t let it go on, not here, not in front of -- 

Denny’s face is frozen in the moment of epiphany. Kristin feels the telling, idiotic smile still spread across her lips and she cuts it off at once, shaking her head. A silent plea.

His hands slowly come up to his face, covering his mouth in shock as they stare each other down for a solid minute. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I just -- I honestly -- don’t know what to say.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Kristin sighs, rubbing absently at the edge of her phone with her finger. “It’s over.” 

“Was it just… once? Like a drunken…” 

Kristin watches him for a long moment, then shakes her head. She can see him trying not to react, and she’s gotta give him points for effort. 

“How long?” 

“A month. But it was… building. For awhile.” 

“Jesus Christ.”

Kristin sighs, staring at the wall. The panic is dissolving into relief. There’s no way she could’ve carried the weight of this alone for much longer. She looks back at him, giving him a weak smile of gratitude for dragging it out of her. 

“Okay,” he says softly. “Then what is it?” 

Kristin laughs, dropping her head back against the top of the sofa in defeat because even she has no earthly idea what it is. Was.

“Den… she took me to Napa fucking Valley so I could see the stars.”

“...Oh my God, you love her.”

Kristin sits up instantly, glaring daggers. “I do not.” 

“You sure?” 

“Denny, I’m straight.”

“No you're not. You’ve been sleeping with a woman for a month.”

“ _Stop._ ”

“Are you seriously having a gay freakout? Should I be offended?” 

“She. Is. _Married_.” 

The reality hits him, and he slumps back in his seat. “Fuck. I forgot.” 

Kristin rolls her eyes and buries her face in her palms, but he’s instantly there, gently prying them away.

“Honey... I’m _so_ sorry.” 

“It’s fine. No, it’s better this way. It had to end.” 

“I’m still sorry.” 

Kristin surveys their long-forgotten, half-eaten dinners spread across the coffee table and wonders when her life turned upside down. 

“You do love her though, don’t you?”

  
  
+++

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No one says "You don’t have to say it back" and means it._

_______________

 

The first time Kristin steps into her dressing room at the Gershwin, she doesn’t want to leave. Not only because it’s magical and pink, but because Joe is a ticking timebomb of stress, Kristin _hates_ revisions, and a week off means everyone’s already forgotten the changes they made in San Francisco. She’d come in late and tripped over Elphaba’s bed when Idina smiled at her across the stage, and the day went downhill from there. 

“Come in,” she tells the knock at the door, hoping she sounds weary enough to ward them off.

Idina’s head peeks around the doorframe and Kristin sits up on the sofa, hands folded on her knees. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Idina smiles, looking around. “Fuck, that’s a lot of pink.” 

Kristin smiles back. “Don’t hate.” 

She steps inside, dropping her bag onto a chair. “How was your week?”

“It was okay. How was yours?”

“Fine.” 

They stare at each other for a moment and Kristin drops her head, smiling at the floor. “We did not just have that conversation.” 

“‘Fraid so.” 

Idina shuffles awkwardly for a moment before reaching for her bag, digging through and pulling out a rumpled yet folded lump of clothes that Kristin recognizes instantly as her own: two t-shirts, a red camisole, a pair of sleep shorts and -- _God_ \-- a lacy black thong.

“Um…” Idina sets them gingerly on the dresser and smoothes out the wrinkles. “Just wanted to give you…”

Kristin closes her eyes, willing away the flashbacks of Idina removing each and every item from her body at one point or another. 

Except the thong. She’d left that on. 

“They, uh… ended up in my suitcase.” 

“Thanks,” Kristin says evenly. “Um, did you see a blue tank top anywhere? I can’t find it.” 

“I’m keeping it.”

Idina’s eyes have darkened, her face clouded with something between guilt and defiance. She looks fully ready to snatch another piece of clothing from the pile if Kristin tries to argue. 

Carefully, Kristin rises from the sofa and closes the space between them. She locks their eyes as her hands come up to the zipper on Idina’s hoodie, slowly tugging it down until it opens. Idina is a statue, completely motionless as Kristin slides her hands up, pushing the rest of the material over Idina’s shoulders and tugging the sleeves over her hands until she can pull it off, leaving her in a soft, clingy gray t-shirt. Folding it loosely, she tucks the hoodie into a drawer and straightens herself up, equally defiant. 

“Only fair,” she says.

“I love that hoodie.” 

“I’ll take good care of it.” 

Kristin takes a step back, keeping them safe. One of them has to. 

Idina stares at the wall. “I’m gonna go.” 

“Yeah.”

She goes. Kristin digs the hoodie out of the drawer and wraps herself in it, breathes it in until the scent becomes too familiar and seems to disappear.

 

+++

 

At last, Idina conquers her fear of being fired in a momentous fit of rage and tells Joe to go fuck himself, with slightly more creative and incendiary verbiage.

Momentary shock aside, Kristin doesn’t think to let her cool down before traipsing after her and into her dressing room without knocking, leaning back against the inside of the door. Idina’s pacing in a one-meter radius, essentially spinning in circles. 

“It’s not Joe, is it?” 

Idina comes to a halt in the center of the room, stares at the wall and shakes her head slowly, reluctantly, almost as if she’s physically attempting to stop it from moving side to side.

“Look at me,” Kristin pleads.  
  
“I need you to leave.”

“ _Idina_.” 

Idina is in her space instantly, hands pressing to the door on either side of Kristin’s head. She looks down at her, gaze darting between Kristin’s eyes and mouth, and Kristin swears she can hear their heartbeats sync up and speed up in the same exhale. 

Without looking away, Idina slides one hand lower until she reaches the lock. Kristin hears it click into place and the only sound left in the world is the ragged breath between them. 

She understands. This is a warning. This is Idina admitting defeat, begging Kristin to be strong for them both. 

It’s unfair. It’s unfair, and her skin starts to prickle with anger, but there’s no other choice. Either she stops it, or it doesn’t get stopped. How can Idina put this on her? Does she think this is _easier_ for her? Does she think Kristin wants this any less? 

Kristin takes a deep breath, slides her hand across the door, and unlocks it. Idina shrinks away as though Kristin flipped a switch on her instead, and Kristin slips through the door before she can switch it back.

 

+++

 

In the end, it’s just a smile. A smile does them in, one week until previews. 

Kristin will take the blame. She prompted it. She deserves every consequence it spawned. 

During a take-five in the middle of “Popular,” she and Idina stay planted to Glinda’s bed, swinging their legs over the edge and trying to stay in character. Everyone’s talking across the stage, arguing and planning and revamping, and most conveniently, no one pays them the slightest hint of attention. 

Kristin looks up at her to ask if she wants a bottle of water. 

“I miss you so much,” comes out instead. 

The broken smile she gets in return is made up of shock, relief, and heartbreak. Kristin hopes to never see it again. 

So when Idina shows up in her dressing room an hour later, it’s Kristin who locks the door. 

Idina holds her index finger to her lips. Kristin nods, agreeing to silence; agreeing to anything. For the first time in all of it, she feels terrified, and Idina looks terrified, and they fall into a terrifying, silent chaos of mouths and tongues and limbs, every taste and touch so good it hurts. Kristin finds herself laid bare on the sofa with Idina over her, kissing her through it to swallow the noises that escape. Idina pins her wrists to the armrest with her spare hand as if to ground them, but it’s pointless. They’re falling.

 

+++

 

Once they give in, something shuts off. They stop trying to resist. The bubble closes back up around them, separating _this_ from the rest of life, letting them step in and out as they please, seamlessly managing both. Kristin knows eventually the two will collide, but she stops thinking about it. She thinks about making the show as good as she can, thinks about how she’s sleeping better than she ever has in her life, thinks about Idina’s hands all over her, around her, inside her, and she gets by. 

The stakes are higher. Privacy is growing thinner. There are people who drive them around now. Their names and faces are printed all over the city, and it feels like the bubble’s getting smaller. 

Idina was always good at this; like a man, she compartmentalizes effortlessly; but, like a woman, it’s powered by emotions. They overshadow the logic, every time. Kristin can say _We can’t_ , Kristin can say _You’re married_ , but in those moments, Idina can’t process it. Her logic takes her as far as _I know, but this, **this**_ , and no further. 

It’s Idina’s skill. But Kristin’s always been a fast learner.

 

+++

 

“What would your family say? If things were different, like you weren’t -- and we -- if you told them you were…”

Idina smiles, tracing little patterns across Kristin’s chest, and settles deeper into the pillow. “My mom would probably look at everyone else and say ‘Told you so’ and then some people would hand money to other people.” 

“I love that you’re envisioning this happening at like, a family reunion.” 

“Baby, my family’s huge. This is just Friday night.” 

Kristin smiles. “Will they be there next week?”

“Oh yeah. And I’ve got a cousin who loves tiny blondes, so watch out.” 

“Does he look like you? ‘Cause maybe...” 

“Ew, no! As if I’d let him touch you anyway." 

Kristin giggles and lets Idina pull her protectively into her chest, breathing in her skin and tugging the covers over them. They won't get to do this again for awhile in the freedom of Kristin's apartment, but if she can keep the scent in her sheets for a few more days, it won't be as hard.

“What about you?” Idina asks softly. “What would yours say?”

Kristin doesn’t say _I never want to find out_ , which is the truth.

She says, “I have no idea,” which is half.

 

+++

 

Idina takes her hand as they approach the Tavern entrance with the camera crew a meager ten feet behind. Kristin tenses and looks up, but Idina smiles at her like she has the whole world under her spell. She’s still glowing from the evening’s high, the white satin dress leaves precisely nothing to the imagination, and Kristin can’t take her eyes off her. 

“It’s fine,” Idina whispers, squeezing her hand. “Trust me.”

 

-

 

When Kristin meets Idina’s mother, she takes Kristin’s hand in both of hers and tells her she lit up the stage. She has Idina’s eyes, and her laugh, she’s funny and sarcastic and brilliant, and Kristin is completely enamored. It’s her one and only mistake. 

She sits with her long after Idina has left the table to make the rounds and asks her as many questions as she dares, mostly embarrassing childhood ones because she knows Idina’s doing the same damn thing at this very moment, seated across the room between Kristin’s parents with bright eyes and a brighter smile. Kristin watches her silently, watches her nod and smile, doing her best to accept the compliments; watches her throw her head back and laugh when one of them says something funny.

“Wears her heart on her sleeve, that one,” Helene says, following Kristin’s eyes.

“She does,” Kristin agrees. “She’s… something else. Warm and giving ever since the day I met her. She’s very open.” 

“That’s my DeDe. Could always read her like a book.” 

Kristin smiles. 

“You know,” Helene says, “I always knew what boys she had crushes on before she did.” 

“Really?” 

She looks over to find Helene watching her with a small, warm smile that screams omnipotence. 

“Every last one. Girls too.”

Kristin stares down at her drink and attempts to disappear.

“As for you…”  
  
“What about me?” 

She looks back up. Helene is still smiling, her eyes twinkling. 

“Haven't you seen the way she looks at you?” 

Against better judgment, Kristin’s gaze gravitates back across the room. Idina is looking at her the way she does when they’re alone, like they’re safely tucked away in their bubble with no one to see. There’s a shy smile playing on her lips, and Kristin wonders exactly which embarrassing childhood story her parents are releasing from the vault. 

“Be careful.”

Kristin looks up. “I’m sorry?” 

“Be careful with her, sweetie. She has these grand romantic notions that love conquers all -- that if she gives someone enough, they’ll be who she wants them to be. That they’ll love her back the same. But the thing is... Dee never stops falling in love.”

Kristin stares at the table, methodically smoothing out the linen napkin in front of her. 

“I think,” she says, “you may be misunderstanding our relationship.” 

“I doubt it. But she might.”

 

-

 

Kristin counts ten breaths, then another half for good measure before following Idina into the restroom without letting herself acknowledge they've gotten secrecy down to a science.

Idina's reapplying lipstick and smiles at her in the mirror. "Hey." 

Taking a cursory glance under the stalls, Kristin reaches behind herself and flips the lock on the door, earning a curious eyebrow quirk. 

"Here?"

"I had an interesting conversation with your mother tonight." 

"Bet you did." Idina snorts, digging through her purse. "What was it, the story about how one boob showed up before the other, or the time I peed my pants at the sixth grade talent show?" 

"Dee, she -- I think she _knows_." 

"Yeah, probably." 

"What? You -- that doesn't freak you out?"

Idina shrugs. "I grew up with it, I guess I’m used to it. I mean... she doesn’t... _do_ anything with the information. She keeps it for reference, in case I ever need to talk. But she doesn’t bring it up, she doesn’t tell anyone. It’s easy to forget she’s pretty much a mind-reader."

Kristin swallows the lump of tension in her throat, forcing her head not to reel out of orbit. Denny knows. That's one. Now -- now it's two. How many more will figure it out before... 

"She said you never stop falling in love." 

Idina smiles knowingly to herself, staring down at the faucet will both her hands braced on the edge of the sink.

"What does that mean?" Kristin prompts.

"I don't know." Idina flails her hands a bit, letting them flop back to her sides, and turns around. "That I'm... bad at monogamy? Doesn’t feel right that we’re only allowed to love one person, you know?" 

"But you got married." 

"I didn’t want to lose him."

"That was the only way?" 

"Um, generally, yeah." 

"So you’ll just spend your whole life being… not completely fulfilled?"

Idina huffs, turning back to the mirror and staring at Kristin through it. "Do you know _anyone_ who's completely fulfilled?" 

"Are you in love with me?" 

No, no, _no_. It’s not the time or place, it’s not the way Kristin had planned to ask, if it ever came down to asking at all, but apparently the words needed out more than she needed them in.

Idina watches her, unreadable, but unshocked. 

"I don’t fall in love with people who won’t love me back."

"You can’t choose who you fall in love with." 

Idina's eyes narrow, a piercing focus taking over the open, giving warmth that Kristin loves so much. 

"I can try." 

She snaps her purse shut and gives her dress a final pat-down, squaring her shoulders. 

"You could lose him, you know," Kristin says. "If this…" 

"I know." Idina's eyes snap back to hers before she crosses the floor, reaching behind her to unlock the door. "I know."

Kristin swallows hard. “I don't want to be the one who breaks up a marriage. That's not who I am." 

"The only people capable of breaking up a marriage are the ones in it."

There is a gust of air as the door opens and swings shut, leaving Kristin alone between the empty walls. Back inside the party, a table explodes with laughter. She catches a glance at herself in the mirror, and even though she's alone, it takes a moment to recognize the person staring back.

 

+++

 

Once. Just a series of "once," and they fall farther than they can find their way back. 

Idina gets her to do yoga with her, once. They do it in Kristin's living room with a DVD, and when the instructor says something about tightening the groin, Kristin giggles so hard she falls flat onto the mat. 

Idina extracts herself from the asana and climbs on top of her, pinning her to the soft foam and kissing the flagrant disregard for mind-body harmony right off her lips. 

They fuck in character, once, not roleplay but in full green and glitter, with one verdant hand beneath Glinda's flowy yellow sundress. It starts before the show but they clock's wrong and they get called for places before they can finish. Halfway through the first act, offstage in the wings, Kristin slides up behind her and whispers in her ear, "I'm still wet," and carries her through the scene when Idina forgets her line. 

When Kristin reaches for her as the platform descends, Idina is off before it hits the ground, closing her fingers tight around Kristin's forearm and dragging her into her dressing room despite the makeup team waiting next door. Idina holds her against the wall, holds her wrists overhead with one hand and finishes her off with the other. She sucks a mark into Kristin's skin, just under the line of yellow fabric and not nearly safe, but Kristin can't bring herself to care. 

It's breathtakingly easy, because of course this would happen, _could_ happen between _them_. Kristin tries to ignore how easy it is, how all the wrong melts away when they can pretend it's not real, and she wonders if they should do this more often to ease the guilt until she's scrubbing green out from under her fingernails at midnight. She doesn't want it gone, not really, but she doesn't have a choice. 

Kristin has no idea when she starts falling in love. She only recognizes its progress, once, on the morning she watches Idina dressed in a gray tracksuit, filling two bowls with granola, picking out a few extra raspberries from the box, adding them to Kristin’s bowl and singing “Over the Rainbow” until she spots Kristin watching her. Idina smiles, ducks her head, pours the milk, and Kristin begins to come apart.

 

+++

 

"Hey." 

Kristin pokes her head into the dressing room. It's humid from shower steam, and Idina's still standing in front of the mirror in her undies and a t-shirt, scrubbing a spot of green from her ear with a Q-tip. She smiles, vibrant with show energy and her lifesaving moisturizer. 

"Hey, get in here." 

Kristin steps in, closing the door behind her. There's a travel bag under her arm, which she drops on the floor. 

"When's your flight?" Idina asks, toweling off her hair.

"Two hours." 

"Jesus, get outta here then." 

"Car's waiting. I just wanted to say happy Thanksgiving." 

"You too. Tell 'em I said hi, okay?" 

"Yours too." 

Idina grins, snapping the towel out to whack Kristin's hip. "If I tell my mom you said hi, she'll know we're still..." 

Kristin presses her palms over her face and groans. Idina steps close, prying them away and holding Kristin's hands against her chest as she gives her a slow, searing kiss to last for the forty-eight hours they'll be apart. 

"Safe trip," she whispers. 

"Mm." Kristin smiles and kisses her again before pulling away, hauling her bag over her shoulder. "Bye, sweetie." 

"Bye, I love you." 

Kristin's eyes shoot up. Her stomach backflips as the words bounce off the walls of her head in a slow-motion echo, and Idina looks no less shocked. 

Kristin steps closer, propelled only by the rapid thud of a heartbeat that's skyrocketed in the space of a breath. 

"...What?" 

So much happens in Idina's face over a mere few seconds that Kristin's fully convinced she's going to take it back, until she sees the tears in Idina's eyes and finds the words reflected there, loud as her voice. The only thing that floors her is how Idina's looking at her exactly the same way she always has. 

"I love you," she says again. "I am... so very, so hopelessly in love with you." 

Kristin can only imagine what she must look like for Idina to step forward instantly, taking her hands and trying to catch her breath. 

"You don’t have to say it back. I just couldn’t keep it in anymore." 

Kristin is dizzy. Too many words; she's playing catch-up already, only to realize no one says _You don’t have to say it back_ and means it. 

And, she wants to. Oh god, she wants to. 

"You’re… you’re married," she says instead.

Idina nods, slowly. It's the first time she hasn't ignored the accusation or fought it. 

"What if I weren’t? Just -- what if? What if -- I were yours instead? Would you... would you want me?" 

Kristin can't breathe. 

"I know…" Idina goes on, squeezing her hands and lowering her voice. "We can’t go on like this forever, I know eventually... we have to make a choice. But… I've already made it. I choose you. I want to be with _you_. Kristin... I’ve wanted to be with you since the first night." 

Her voice breaks off in a choked sob, and Kristin only manages to catch her breath to give Idina a chance to find her own. Kristin's heart is breaking and bursting all at once -- it can't possibly be this simple. Not in their thirties with life in the public eye and a marriage and the media and precisely one thousand other reasons. It isn't. It can't be. 

She takes a half step back, but doesn't let go of Idina's hands. 

"I need time," she says. "To think. About -- I need time." 

It's all she can think to say that's neither dishonest nor dangerous. But Idina accepts it, nodding silently. 

"I don’t mean a couple days at home. I need… real time. Apart from... this. To think. Clearly." 

"So. You mean." 

"We take a break. We stop... this. For real. Until we -- until I can -- "

She can see Idina teetering on the edge of panic, but still, she nods. 

"Okay." 

"Okay?" 

"Whatever you need. I'll wait." 

Kristin kisses her in response, deeply, thoroughly, leaving no room for Idina to feel rejected. She spares a smile before she pulls the door open, and Idina returns it, a little dazed but gorgeous as ever, and Kristin has to bite her lip to keep the words inside.

 

+++

 

Her hands curl around the wide, steaming mug, covering the pink-ribboned pointe shoes painted onto the side. Kristin remembers when her daddy gave it to her after her first recital before asking for her autograph. The paint is chipped around the edges now, and there's a chunk of ceramic missing from the top, but it's always here when she comes home and she won't drink out of anything else.

Kristin smiles gratefully as her mama sits down across from her with a mug of her own.

"You didn't have to wait up for me." 

"I certainly did, you don't have a key."

"You changed the locks on me?!" 

"For pete's sake, Kristi, the Carters had a break-in. Not everything's about you."

Kristin snorts into her cup, hiding her smile. "Yes it is." 

"You wish. How's the show?" 

"I never want to see glitter again as long as I live."

"Honestly, all about you. How's your beautiful leading lady?" 

"Still beautiful. She says hi." 

"Give her a hug for me. How's Denny?" 

"Still gay, Mama."

Junie sighs. "One day." 

Kristin rolls her eyes. "One day he'll still be gay." 

"Never say never." 

"Never." 

They look at each other challengingly until Kristin sighs in defeat. She might as well give her something. 

"I think I'm falling for someone." 

Her mother's eyes light up. "Kristi, that's _wonderful_." 

"It's not. We can't be together." 

"Why not?" 

"It's... complicated." 

Junie raises an eyebrow. "That's all I get?" 

"I'm sorry." 

“Which one of y’all’s makin' it complicated?” 

Kristin can’t help but laugh. “Both of us, I guess.”

“Then maybe that’s your answer. If it’s a mess now, it’s not gonna be any better when you’re together, not after the high wears off.” 

“Not even if we’re in love?” 

It's the first time she's said it out loud, and even if it's not an admission, it feels so very close. 

“Love ain’t magic, sugar plum. You gotta have sense, too.” She takes a few sips, drumming her fingers on the table. "Is he married?" 

"Something like that." 

She looks down into her mug. It sounds worse, all of it, when she’s forced to break it down to the bare facts. Anyone else would call them a homewrecker and a whore who are out of their minds, and maybe they are.

“You know I’m not gonna judge whatever choices you make. But trust me, baby girl... you don’t want to be the one who breaks up a marriage.” 

“If it ends because of me, it couldn't have been meant to be in the first place.” 

“Well, then I’ve only got one card left to play: if he’s willing to cheat _with_ you… what’s to stop him from cheating _on_ you?” 

Kristin stares at the table. 

“What begins in chaos ends in chaos, sweet pea.” 

“But we didn’t. That’s not how we started. That’s… that’s just a byproduct.”

“Then how’d it start?” 

“I… have no idea,” she admits. “I just know it was beautiful.”

 

-

 

Kristin flips through the closet of her childhood bedroom, surprised as ever at how much they’ve kept. Even her cheerleading uniform is still sitting there on the hanger, neatly pressed. For a daring moment she considers putting it on and texting a picture to Idina just to imagine the look on her face, but something tells her that’s not going to help much of anything. 

Instead she simply sprawls out on her old bedspread and texts, _I miss you madly._ If not truly safe, at least safely true. 

Idina replies, _Hold out, my sweet. :)_ and Kristin stares up at the ceiling with the air caught in her lungs, unable to move.

She is in love.

 

+++

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _God couldn’t have sent a clearer message if He’d written **Back off** on her bathroom mirror._

__________

  


“I tried to talk him out of it.”

Kristin shakes her head at the door, sinking further into the sofa’s squishy mass. There’s a loose thread on the armrest; it used to be shorter, but she remembers her nails digging into it, scraping over the fabric the last time Idina had her bent over the edge ten minutes to curtain, whispering beautiful, filthy nonsense into her ear. 

This is a sign. It can’t be anything else. God couldn’t have sent a clearer message if He’d written _Back off_ on her bathroom mirror. 

She can still smell his cologne in the air. On herself too, maybe; he’d picked her up and spun her around when she’d come in. _Looks like I get to kiss **two** beautiful ladies next month_, he’d joked, winking. Idina had whacked him on the arm and sent him off to rehearsal, and Kristin wasn’t even sure who to feel sorry for anymore. 

“You shouldn’t have. He’s your husband. You should want him in the show.” 

“I told him it would take the spotlight away from us.” 

“That’s... weak.” 

“What do you want, Kristin? I tried.” 

“I told you, you shouldn’t have tried.” 

“So you want him here?” 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s only a month. And he’s your husband.” 

If she keeps saying the right things, she might eventually mean them. 

Idina sighs, kneeling down in front of the sofa and taking Kristin’s hands until Kristin relents to look at her. There’s a little red mark on the side of her neck that Kristin can’t bear to look at. She didn’t leave it there. She’s been meticulously careful and Idina isn’t hers to mark. Less so, now, or so it feels. 

Kristin brings her hand to it, swiping her thumb over the reddish-purple blotch, and Idina flinches away. 

“I still mean it,” Idina whispers. “Everything I said. Nothing’s changed.” 

“And I still need time.” 

“I know. I’m not -- I know.” Kristin shifts her hand to cup Idina’s face, stroking the line of her jaw, and Idina leans into it, closing her eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Kristin says softly, too weary to hold back, and Idina smiles, hiding her face behind Kristin’s hand. “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful and I miss kissing you so much it hurts.” 

Idina opens her eyes, looking at her the same way she always has, but Kristin sees it now, sees what’s behind it. She wonders how long Idina loved her before she said it. She wonders if that’s how she looks herself, now. She wonders if Idina can see it. She wonders if Idina knows. 

“I know,” Idina says, and lays her head on Kristin’s lap. “I know.” 

  
+++  


The first time they kiss in character, Kristin can see what Idina sees in him -- not that she didn’t already. She kisses him back a little too easily, a little too freely, giving it her all. She’s in love with his wife; it’s the least she can give him, and the confused, jealous part of her likes to think Idina deserves this, just a little. 

_I promise I won’t stick my tongue down his throat_ , she tells her on goddamn camera in the middle of an interview, but if Idina’s going to say things like _Because I love her_ then she deserves whatever curveball Kristin cares to throw. 

She just didn’t count on Idina throwing one of her own. 

“Seriously?” 

“It was a joke.” Idina rolls her eyes. “They like jokes. They like _us_.” 

“There is no _us_.” 

Idina looks like she’s been slapped. 

“Dee, that’s not what I -- ” 

_Don’t read into it. That’s not my answer._

“What is it?” Idina asks softly. “What are you so afraid of?” 

Kristin can’t say. 

It’s a quiet month. 

  
+++ 

  


The quiet doesn’t lift slowly or elegantly like a sunrise. They simply rip the lid off, leaping from silence to chaos in a thirty-second window on a Monday at midnight. 

“Hello?” 

“Can I come over?” 

Idina’s voice is shaking. Kristin can hear taxis honking in the background and February wind tumbling roughly into the phone’s mic. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Can I come over?” 

“Jeez, yes. What’s wrong?” 

The line is dead. Ten minutes pass, then another five. Kristin considers calling her back, or calling someone, when the knock sounds through her door. 

Idina is bundled in her giant blue parka with the furry hood framing her face. She looks relatively unharmed, but her nose is red and she’s trembling and Kristin will not hesitate to slap her if she finds out she walked all the way here from home. 

Kristin grabs a puffy sleeve and drags her inside. “Ever heard of a car?” 

“I’m three days late.” 

“...What?” 

Digging into one massive pocket, Idina pulls out a small CVS bag and dumps it on the coffee table. Through the semi-sheer plastic, Kristin can make out the logo and text printed across an unmistakable pink and blue box. Something sickening deep inside her chest springs to life, spiraling down into the pit of her stomach. 

She stares at the box. She can’t tell if it’s been opened yet and she doesn’t want to know. 

When she looks up at Idina, her hood has fallen back and there are tears streaming down her face. 

“Did you...” 

Idina shakes her head. “I didn’t want to do it alone.” 

“Where is he?” 

“Gone 'till tomorrow.” 

Kristin steps closer, trying to steady herself. She’s not allowed to be the wreck right now. 

“Come here.” 

Idina clings to her, sobbing quietly against her shoulder, and Kristin squeezes her back as tight as she can through the layers of insulation. She smells like cold and winter and Manhattan streets but also herself, with warmth seeping back into her skin, and Kristin has missed it more than she can stand. 

“It’s okay. Honey, it’s gonna be okay.” 

Idina pulls back, looking panicked. “It’s not. I can’t. I don’t want this. I don’t want a baby, I don’t want kids.” 

“Ever?” 

“No! I -- I don’t know! Not _now_!” 

“Okay -- okay. It’s fine, you don’t even know for sure.” 

Kristin reaches forward and tugs the zipper down, freeing Idina of the extra layers. She’s still shivering and Kristin rubs her hands up and down her arms, leading her to the sofa. 

“I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.” 

She can’t think of anything else to say. It’s not okay. It wouldn’t be okay. Idina would take it all back, she’d stay with him, or worse, she’d go to that horrible place and take those horrible pills and never be the same and somehow Kristin would blame herself, if Idina didn’t blame her first, or worse, they’d try anyway, they’d try to be together with a child thrown instantly into the mix and they’d fail miserably, fail each other, fail the kid, and Kristin can’t breathe because everything has become suffocatingly real. 

Kristin could lose her. 

In a moment of panic, she reaches for the bag and digs out the box, placing it in Idina’s lap. There’s no point in dragging this out. 

“I’ll be here. Whatever happens.” 

Idina’s looking at her like Kristin has all the answers, like she can somehow save her from this. Kristin wants to, so badly -- in fact, the urge is so strong it takes her by storm -- how badly she wants to belong to this woman, to protect her, to love her and keep her safe. She wants to say it and she’s not even scared, not anymore -- not enough to stop herself. The three words are on her lips already, right where they’ve been for a month, fighting for release, but she can’t. Not now; not like this. 

Instead, she leans in, holding Idina’s face and bringing their lips together. Maybe the words will get through, after all. 

It’s the first time since Thanksgiving and the first time Idina’s ever been surprised by her kiss, but she overcomes it quickly, welcoming her inside. When their tongues meet, she stops shaking. When Kristin’s fingers tangle in her hair, her breathing slows. Kristin understands the effect, even if it’s terrifying to admit. 

With her, Idina is home. 

Idina brings their foreheads together, after, taking Kristin’s hand and placing it over her racing heart. 

“I’m here,” Kristin says, and watches her disappear down the hall. 

Her eyes don’t leave the clock. She knows how this works. A minute passes, then two. At three, her fingers start tapping obsessively on the arm of the sofa. After four, she gets up and starts pacing. After six, she marches down the hall and stands in front of the bathroom door and doesn’t breathe. 

“Dee?” 

Nothing. 

“Can I come in?” 

Still nothing, and when Kristin cracks the door open, Idina’s seated on the edge of the tub, staring at the floor. The little white stick is laid flat on the counter but Kristin looks away before she can see. 

“I can’t look,” Idina says. “You do it.” 

“I -- no. I can’t.” 

“Please?” 

She wants to protest, tell her it’s not fair, but when Idina looks up at her with wide, bloodshot eyes, Kristin would give her anything in the world. 

She steps over to the counter, heart pounding, and peers down. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but she can’t bring herself to react. In all honesty, she has no business having an opinion on this at all, but the relief spreads so fast through her system that she grips the counter for support, releasing a long-held breath in one burst. 

“Negative.” 

Idina’s eyes fall shut, the tension seeping from her shoulders. Kristin feels a full minute pass, suspended in shock. 

“Thank you,” Idina says, and Kristin nods absently in response. “You look terrified.” 

“I was.” 

“Why?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“What does it matter to you? It’s not like you want to be with me anyway.” 

“That’s -- ” Kristin hadn’t prepared. She isn’t ready. She knows she’s taken more than enough time already but not here, not like _this_. “That’s not -- ” 

She can’t finish. The fear has wormed its way back inside and lodged firmly in her throat. 

Idina looks at her with something Kristin could only identify as crushing disappointment, before wiping it off her face and pushing herself to her feet. 

“I’m going for a jog.” 

Kristin blinks. “What? Now?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s midnight!” 

“So?” 

“Don’t -- don’t go.” 

“Why?” 

Idina’s eyes are as sharp as her voice: a challenge. She’s giving Kristin every opportunity, every opening, but all the words get stuck in Kristin’s throat until she feels like she’s choking. 

Idina gives up and brushes past her. Kristin can hear her move down the hall, tugging her coat back on. The front door clicks shut. 

What should’ve taken precisely zero actually takes thirty-one seconds, but Kristin doesn’t even bother to button her jacket or lace up her shoes before she’s out the door, and that has to count for something. 

  
\- 

  


She guesses right; Idina’s headed to the park to do laps around the playground, but Kristin catches up to her before she gets there, stopping her under a tree filled precariously with layers of fresh snow. There’s more below, insulating the air with a peaceful silence that the city only grants when the theaters are dark and the ground is white. It’s still falling: wide, fluttering flakes that catch on the ends of Idina’s hair, her eyebrows, her nose. Kristin wants to kiss every last one. 

Idina leans over to rest her hands on her knees, catching her breath and looking at Kristin like she’s not quite there. 

“It’s _freezing_ ,” Kristin says. “What are you doing?” 

Idina shrugs. “I like running.” 

“Why?!” 

“It’s painful. It’s good for me, and it’s painful. I can feel the benefits, immediately after the pain. Sometimes you need to be reminded that pain is important. Pain teaches us. Pain lets us evolve. It makes the good things better.” 

“Not all good things have to come from pain.” 

“No. But all painful things eventually lead to good. You just have to find it. Otherwise, what’s the point?” 

She starts running again and Kristin rolls her eyes, lunging forward to tag along beside her. 

“You’re still crazy.” 

“Maybe,” Idina says, “but you followed me.” 

“Yeah, because I love you, not because I like running.” 

Idina spins around on the spot and Kristin runs straight into her before she even realizes what she’s said. 

The cold disappears. Everything disappears. Idina’s panting from exertion but her eyes are fully alert. 

“What?” 

Kristin stares at her, trying to catch her own breath, and fails. 

Idina steps closer. “What did you say?” 

Kristin waits for the fear to latch back on and hold her back, but it isn’t there. There’s nothing. Just a few inches of February air between them, the steam from their breath, a few floating flakes, and the truth. 

And Kristin melts. 

“I love you.” 

It’s twice as easy the second time, and she wants to say it again, and again, over and over to make up for all the times she didn’t. 

There are tears in Idina’s eyes as she lifts one cold, trembling hand to Kristin’s cheek. “Say it again?” 

Kristin smiles. “I love you.” 

Idina’s arms are around her, enveloping her in a thick, poofy cocoon. Kristin holds on as tight as she can, feeling her feet leave the ground as Idina lifts her up and brings her lips to Kristin’s ear. 

“I love you too.” 

Kristin smiles into her neck, squeezing harder. 

“Come home,” she says. 

Idina whispers, “I am.” 

  
\- 

  


It’s like the first time, but with the stunning addition of clarity. 

Back in the warmth of Kristin’s bed, they make love with all the wildfire and adoration they’re finally allowed to have. It’s not the first time it’s been more than just sex, if it ever was, but it’s the first time they’re brave enough to admit it. It’s the first time Kristin can see it in every look, feel it in every touch. It’s the first time she can wrap her hand around Idina’s neck and pull her down to whisper _I love you_ in her ear, and it’s the first time Idina can spread her out on the sheets and say it back. 

It’s the first time Kristin doesn’t think about tomorrow. 

  
\- 

  


Tomorrow begins to slip back in through the cracks at two a.m., when Kristin is blissfully occupied with kissing each of Idina’s fingertips, one by one. 

“If you’re quite done with those,” Idina says, “they do have other areas to revisit.” 

Kristin smiles and releases her hand, which disappears smoothly below the covers to stroke over the curve of her hip and pull her closer. 

“What happens now?” Kristin asks. 

“Now I kiss you,” Idina says, and does. 

Kristin smiles. “I mean tomorrow.” 

“I plan on kissing you tomorrow, too.” 

Kristin makes a noise, pinching whatever bit of skin she can reach, and Idina relents. 

“He comes home in the afternoon, and… I’ll tell him.” 

A bit of Idina’s confidence has faded, but there’s still fresh determination written across her face. 

“And… what happens after that?” 

“I… I don’t know. I mean… we probably shouldn’t… tell anyone… until I’m officially separated, you know?” 

“And… what would would we say, then?” 

“You could just get on the broom one night, I’m sure they’d figure it out.” 

“And give Joe a massive coronary.” 

“Mm... tempting, isn’t it?” 

Kristin smiles, but her head is spinning. The fantasy's over and now there’s another reality imposing on the perfect, secret one they’ve built for themselves -- a harsh, smothering reality that’s about to change every single thing about their lives. A reality shaped by words like divorce and coming out and commitment and risk and the other woman and a few other labels she’s not willing to spell out. 

She can see it. Her name in the press and the words beside it, unflattering, all-caps, bold in black and white. 

And her parents -- God, her fucking _parents_. 

“Go to sleep,” Idina says softly, closing her eyes and nestling against her. “We have all the time in the world.” 

  
\- 

  


The snow stops just before seven. From the armchair beside her window Kristin watches the last flake fall, watches it land on the glass, the delicate fractal melting instantly, vanishing before her eyes. It seems brutally unfair that something so beautiful can be so easily destroyed, like it never existed. 

At first, she’d watched Idina sleep. When the first wave of tears stung her eyes after twenty minutes, she couldn’t watch anymore. 

When they didn’t stop, she took herself to the chair, bundled herself in her fluffy white robe, and never left. 

There’s stirring in the sheets now. Kristin can’t bring herself to look. 

“Baby?” 

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Idina climbing out of bed, pulling on clothes and crossing the room. Only when she’s kneeling in front of her, prying Kristin’s hands from their death grip against her knees, does Kristin dare to look. 

“Jesus,” Idina breathes. “Baby, what’s wrong?” 

Kristin shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. 

“No… no, please, don’t shut me out. Talk to me.” 

Kristin honestly can’t, she doesn’t even know what to say, but the longer she waits, the faster Idina puts the pieces together. Kristin’s face is all it takes for Idina’s to cloud over, filling with dread. 

“No,” she says, trying to keep her voice firm. “Kristin, _no_.” 

Kristin shakes her head. Fresh tears are falling freely. It’s too late. Idina knows. 

“No,” Idina begs, inching closer. “No. Don’t do this. You’re scared, it’s okay, I am too -- ” 

“Idina.” 

“You said you loved me.” She’s got her own tears now, fighting a cause she already knows is lost. “You said. You _said_.” 

“I _do_.” 

“Then what -- ” 

“This is so much more complicated than that.” 

“Complicated doesn’t change the fact that we’re in love.” 

“For now.” 

Idina releases her hands, falling back on her heels. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“Idina. I’m monogamous. That’s what I need.” 

“I can be -- I _will_ be. You’re worth it.” 

“Didn’t you promise him the same thing?” 

“...I did.” She stares at the floor. “But I don’t think I really believed it then.” 

“Then how -- how can I know if you -- Dee, I want to get married someday.” 

Idina’s face picks up a shred of hope again as she leans forward, taking Kristin’s hands back into hers and smiling weakly. 

“So do I.” 

“We _can’t_!” 

“You seriously need the fucking piece of paper?” 

“No! That’s not -- I just -- “ Kristin pulls her hands away, rising from the chair. “I -- I want kids, too.” 

“And?” Idina gets to her feet. “What, adoption's not good enough for you?” 

“That’s -- why would you even say that? That’s not what I -- ” 

“You’re just making excuses, stop bullshitting me!” 

“Really?” Kristin challenges. “Okay, what happens when I want to take our kids to church? How are you gonna feel about that?” 

“I -- I don’t _know_ , Kristin, you’re talking about _kids_ , I haven’t thought about -- ” 

“No, you haven’t thought about any of it, have you? That it means _leaving your husband_ for something that started out of chaos and, and _lust_ , something we have no idea would work once we leave this cocoon, we don’t even know if we want the same things and I’m supposed to believe you’re just gonna magically change and never want to be with anyone else, and I know I’m just some old-fashioned nut from the Bible Belt, but marriage actually means something to me and we’re talking about breaking one up for a million giant fucking risks and I’m not the kind of woman who does that, I _can't_ be.” 

“Kristin. I told you. _You_ aren’t breaking up a marriage. This is _my_ decision. Only mine. You are not responsible.” 

“We’re risking -- ” 

“Okay, we’re risking everything, what the hell is ever worth having without a risk? And how can you start in on this ‘marriage is sacred’ bullshit when you’ve been fucking me for six months?! Do you even know why I got married? Because he cheated on me and I gave him an ultimatum!” 

Kristin stares at her. She doesn’t try to hide the shock. She’s hiding enough already. 

“Yeah. I wanted my marriage to be perfect. Everyone does. But it’s not. It never is.” 

“You never told me,” she says quietly. 

“I didn’t want you to think you were some sort of… tool for revenge.” 

“...So I’m not?” 

“How -- Jesus Christ, how could you even say that?” 

“How the hell am I supposed to know what’s real, Idina? Look at you and Taye! Look at me and Marc. Look at everyone else you ever loved and tell me what makes you think _this time_ it’s gonna work?” 

Idina steps back into her space, taking Kristin’s hands for what Kristin will remember, somewhere down the line, as the last time. 

“If you’re looking for a guarantee, I can’t give you one. I can’t promise it’ll be easy. I can only promise I’ll love you as long as you’ll let me and I will do _everything_ in my power to make you as happy as you deserve.” 

“You promised to love him, too.” 

“Damn it, Kristin, I _do_ love him! But it’s not like _this_. I’ve never -- with you, it’s… it’s…” 

Kristin pulls away, facing the window. 

“No, I’m serious.” Idina touches her arm. “You know how I feel, you _know_ \-- ” 

“Do you realize what this will do?” she snaps, spinning around. “Do you realize how this is going to _completely -- change -- everything_? How much this is going to limit us, pigeonhole us, typecast us for the rest of our lives?!” 

“What the hell are you talking about? It’s Broadway, everyone’s gay!” 

“ _Men_ , Idina. Men are. Women aren’t. You _know_ that. And I want more than eight shows a week for the rest of my life and don’t try to tell me you don’t, too. I want to go to L.A. -- and I don’t exactly have producers knocking down my door!” 

Idina stares at her like she just entered the Twilight zone. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No, do _not_ belittle this. Relationships end. My life -- my career, that is _mine_ , that is what I can control. In the end, that’s all I have.” 

“...You’re doing this... for your career.” 

Her voice is hollow, and Kristin can see the wall building up behind her eyes. Idina’s preparing to protect herself, which means it’s already too late to turn back. 

“Don’t you _get it_?” Kristin hisses. “Do you have any idea what they’ll say about you? What they’ll say about _me_?” 

“We love each other, who gives a fuck what people say?” 

“You say that now -- what happens later? What happens when we break up? We come out, we take the risk, we’re labeled, our careers tank, my family never looks at me the same way again, and then we break up. What do I have left, then?” 

The tears spring up in Idina’s eyes, her face contorting. 

“What makes you so sure we’ll break up?” 

“Because every relationship I ever believed in turned to shit and I can’t watch that happen again. Not with you.” 

Idina steps back, fully. Her eyes are closed off. It’s already over; she’s gone. 

“I get it. I’m not worth the risk.” 

“That’s not it.” 

She huffs a bitter breath of laughter, turning away. “Yes, it fucking is.” 

“Look at me,” Kristin begs, grabbing her arm and pulling her around. “ _I love you._ But I'm not what you need.” 

“You mean _I'm_ not what _you_ need.” 

Kristin can’t answer. She’d forgotten that Idina knows her -- in fact, knows far too much for them to be playing this game. 

“Don't you _see_ it?” Idina pleads. “Don't you see what you're doing? You run as soon it turns real -- as soon as you realize you might actually fucking _need_ someone.” 

“Stop.” 

“Why did you run from Marc? Why?” 

“Stop.” 

“You can't tell me, can you? Do _you_ even know why?” 

“You know _nothing_ about what happened with Marc!” 

“Do _you_?! What about the next guy? When you run away from him, will you know why? Are you gonna have it figured it out by then?” 

“Stop. Just stop.” 

“It’s easy with me, isn't it? There's a million reasons why we shouldn't be together, right? But men... it doesn't make any sense to run from them, does it? Unless they're not what you really want.” 

“You don't _fucking_ know what I want!” 

“No, I don't, and neither do you! You only know what you _think_ you want. The guy, the kids, the career, the good Christian life -- ” 

“Do _not_ bring my faith into this, it has nothing to do with -- ” 

“What _is_ your faith, Kristin? Do you even know? Because all I see is some apologetic, pseudo-liberal conservative who doesn't know where she stands. Do you really support gays at all, or is that just another _career move_?” 

“How _dare_ you -- ” 

“Because your Bible's pretty fucking clear about what happens to people like us!” 

The silence rings in her ears. If there was a line, it’s been crossed. Kristin shuts down promptly on cue, summoning the quickest, dirtiest defense she can reach. 

“I am _not_ like you.” 

Idina takes a step back. 

“No,” she says blankly. “You're not.” 

Kristin closes her eyes. It shouldn’t hurt like this. It shouldn’t hurt at all. She did this. She’s doing this. This is hers to control, she still has a chance, she could beg forgiveness and Idina could be in her arms in seconds. 

“You need to leave.” 

Idina stares her down, glued to the spot. 

“ _Now_.” 

“Fine.” 

Idina sweeps across the room, tugging on her shoes and marching straight back over to Kristin, towering over her with a ferocity Kristin’s never seen. 

“Go on,” Idina says calmly. “Go, and live your life, and marry some _man_ you think you need to be with, sell out to Hollywood, pretend it’s about marriage and morality and _bullshit_ \-- but when it’s all over... and you’re alone again... and you remember what this felt like…” She brings a warm, trembling hand to Kristin’s face, ghosting over the line of her cheek as the first tear falls. “...What _we_ felt like... and you remember we were real, and that you gave it up -- ” Something flashes over her eyes, turning them from tender to ice cold in a heartbeat. “ -- I hope to God it’s worth it.” 

She’s out, slamming the door behind her before Kristin’s reflexes kick into gear. She grabs the nearest thing she can reach, a picture frame, and hurls it at the closed door. It shatters, scattering glass and wood across the floor. 

Without thinking she runs past it, pulling the door open and sprinting down the hall, but the apartment is empty. Outside her front door she can hear muffled crying and then it’s gone, replaced by retreating footsteps, then silence. 

Kristin stares numbly at the sofa. There’s a blue parka draped over the back. She curls up beneath it and waits for her to come back for it. 

And waits. 

  
+++ 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Kristin’s a master of emotional alchemy. She can transform anger to ambition, longing to hatred, and, if she tries hard enough, pain to performance._

___________

 

The Ambien’s still wearing off when Kristin shows up ten minutes to curtain. She’d sent her driver home an hour ago and spent another thirty minutes debating whether to call out when Michelle’s text had buzzed through. 

 _E’s got a cold and she’s freaking out, where are you_  

Kristin had stared at the screen, trying to shake off the meds. _Where’s Idina?_

 _Called out hours ago, didn’t you get the text?_  

She’d thrown a jacket on and hopped in a cab. There was anger fueling her now, irrational but simmering nonetheless, but it wasn’t about her anymore, it wasn’t allowed to be, and there was some consolation in that. 

Half a dozen people swarm around her the moment she enters the theater, demanding to know where she’s been. Kristin flips them off one by one and marches straight to Eden’s dressing room, pressing the door shut behind her. 

Eden takes one look at her and frowns. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?” 

Eden smiles weakly, holding up a cup of tea with a slice of lemon bobbing on the top. “I’ll live.” 

“Are you sure? We can get Kristy.”

“You’ve never gone on with Kristy.”  
  
“So?”

“So you look like someone fucking died. Just let me take care of you tonight, okay?” 

If it were anyone else, Kristin would take offense at the implication that she can’t hold herself together, but it’s not someone else. Observation is literally Eden’s full-time job. She’s young but intensely protective, she knows how and when to spring into action, and when the shit hits the fan, she always seems to know what Kristin needs. 

Kristin figures she can thank Idina for that. 

“I’m not -- ” is all that comes out before the tears take over. 

Eden doesn’t miss a beat; she never does. She’s right there, holding her close and stroking her hair with one green hand, the other rubbing circles against her back. She’s not quite the same size as Idina but she’s pretty close and all the makeup smells familiar enough that Kristin lets herself disappear in it as long as she can before her dresser starts banging on the door. 

Kristin calls out the next night. It’s only fair.

 

+++

 

The third night, Kristin has no idea if Idina’s there. She hasn’t heard otherwise but she doesn’t leave her dressing room until she’s called for places. 

Idina’s there, in body if not in spirit. She hits the marks, she looks at Kristin and touches her when she has to, but her eyes are hollow. She and Kristin might as well be on different stages. She’s long gone by the time Kristin does the door, and the next night is worse. 

“Fix this,” Joe hisses on Saturday, and Kristin is nothing short of incensed.

“How the hell does this fall on me?” 

“She won’t talk to me. She won’t talk to anyone.” 

“That’s not my problem.” 

“It is if either of you wants the goddamn Tony. I’m not a fucking idiot, Kristin, I know you’ve got something to do with this so for the love of God just _do_ something.”

“She’s a _professional_ ,” Kristin snaps. “If she can’t handle this herself, she damn well doesn’t deserve an award for it.” 

She’s off down the hall before he can answer, slamming her door. Her legs give out and she slides down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. One hand scrambles for her purse and she digs around for her inhaler, giving it a good shake before sucking in a deep, shaking gulp. 

The words still sting like acid on her tongue, but she welcomes the fire. If it spreads, it might take the pain out with it.

 

+++

 

There’s a green post-it on Kristin’s dressing room mirror with a Radiohead lyric in familiar, untidy scribble.

_If I could be who you wanted_

Her heart starts to pound. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to punish her with accusations when Idina knows exactly how Kristin feels. 

Kristin has no idea what it means. It could be anything from a peace offering to a plea to Idina losing her mind, and Kristin’s not sure she has the strength to find out which.

Pain makes you crazy; she’s no stranger to that. But unlike most, Kristin’s a master of emotional alchemy. She can transform anger to ambition, longing to hatred, and, if she tries hard enough, pain to performance. While it only grants a few hours of respite, at least something good comes out of it. 

 _All painful things eventually lead to good. You just have to find it._  

But the greatest pain lies, as always, in the truth: she and Idina are not so different, after all.

 

-

 

“We should probably fix this before we get fired,” is all she can think to say. 

Idina turns back to her mirror, fitting the little blue cap over her head. 

“You have to talk to me.” 

“I don’t have anything to say.” 

They’re the first words Idina’s said to her in two weeks that didn’t come from a script. Not quite what she was hoping to hear, but to be fair, Kristin didn’t exactly give her the best opening. 

She walks to Idina’s chair and spins it around, kneeling down on the floor beside it and taking her hands. It’s sends a sickening sense of deja vu through her head, only now their positions are reversed. Now she’s the one who has to plead her case. 

“You can hate me,” Kristin says. “You can slap me for real in the cornfield for all I care but this isn’t about us.”

Idina rolls her eyes, trying to swivel her chair around, but Kristin’s stronger than she looks. 

“You’re the one who says it. We do it for the little girl in the balcony who traveled all the way across the country to see us, who’ll never get another chance. That’s why we’re here.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” 

“Then don’t fucking jeopardize my career!” 

Idina blinks, taken aback as Kristin tries to force the words back into her throat by sheer will. 

“Sorry,” Idina snaps, “wouldn’t want to do _anything_ that would -- ” 

“I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Forgive me.” 

“Just go.” 

“Please.” Kristin squeezes her hands. “We can’t go on like this. We can fix us later, but we’ve gotta fix this first.” 

“There’s no ‘us’ to fix.” 

Idina spares her another flash of eye contact and then it’s gone. Slowly, Kristin rises to her feet and retreats, one hand poised on the doorknob.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You have no idea how much.”

 

-

 

Elphaba is back, in a manner of speaking. Idina summons back the passion, she does the stage door, she talks to the rest of the cast, she even smiles, as long as it’s not at Kristin. The audience loves it, Joe doesn’t complain, but to Kristin, something’s missing. Something vital and deep that she isn’t sure anyone else can see.

She’d say it’s still better than nothing, but she’s not so sure. All the symptoms lead her to just one conclusion.

Kristin’s influence has taken its toll: Idina has eclipsed her biggest strength and biggest weakness. 

She has removed herself from the character.

 

+++

 

Kristin doubles up the Ambien, goes to bed early, and stops showing up at the last minute. Idina stops avoiding her in the hall and starts saying hello again. They muddle through. 

By March, July begins to loom on the horizon already, both dreaded and desperately anticipated. Kristin’s made the decision long before anyone will know. She wavers on it for a few days until the night she walks into her dressing room to find Idina curled up on the sofa. 

Keeping her shock at bay, Kristin carefully sets her bag and Starbucks on the vanity table. 

“Hi.” 

Idina gets to her feet and crosses the room without preamble. Her hand reaches for Kristin’s, holding it close. 

“Please.” 

Kristin waits. Something tells her this wasn’t an impulse. 

“Please,” Idina says again. 

Kristin pulls her hand away, taking a step back. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“It’s better this way.” 

“What’s better? How is it better? I know what you’re doing, I _know_ you’re trying to protect yourself but -- ” 

“Idina -- ” 

“Don’t do this. God damn it, Kristin, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it was a lie. Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll never ask you again.” 

Her hand comes up to Kristin’s face as the tears spring to her eyes, and with every ounce of control she can summon, Kristin pushes it away, placing it back at Idina’s side.

“You should go.” 

Idina doesn’t. She steps closer, letting the tears fall. 

“Kristi. I know you. In _here_.” Her hand splays over Kristin’s heart, her voice trembling. “I know you regret it, I know you wanted to run after me and I know what stopped you. Baby, I _know_ you.”

It’s too much. It was too much from the start because Kristin has no armor, no weapon against the truth. She turns away sharply but Idina grabs her arm, pulling her back. 

“Why are you lying to yourself? _Why?_ ” 

Before the last word’s out, the door swings open and Norbert’s standing in the frame with a borrowed jar of Kristin’s moisturizer in his hand. 

“Sorry, I didn’t think you were here yet, I just -- ” 

He breaks off, glancing between them, before Kristin realizes they’ve frozen in place with Idina’s hand still on her arm, tears streaking her face and more brewing in Kristin’s eyes. Kristin quickly shakes her off, folding her arms around herself, but Idina remains rooted to the spot, staring at Norbert. 

Norbert swallows. “Everything okay?” 

Kristin collects herself, looking at the wall between them both. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Idina was just leaving.” 

Idina turns around, giving her one last look, and Kristin sees it all -- everything in her own head, all the truths and all the lies and whatever’s in between, reflected back in Idina’s eyes. 

Too little too late, Idina’s cracked her code. She finally dug deep enough to see it all, and Kristin, unaware, had let her. 

Idina sweeps out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Norbert places the jar on the table, watching Kristin warily, like she might burst into flames. 

“Are you…” 

Kristin closes her eyes. “Please just go.” 

She waits for the door to open and click shut before she collapses on the sofa, burying her face in the pillow. The hall is oddly quiet afterwards, and it’s a good thirty minutes before anyone else knocks. She ignores it, and the second. Finally, the door cracks open and Kristin lifts her head. 

Eden steps over the threshold in full costume. Kristin doesn’t know why she’s surprised. 

“Can I be your Elphie tonight?” 

Kristin nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, but Eden doesn’t seem to mind. She sits down on the sofa next to her and holds her hand. Kristin has no idea how much she knows, as if Kristin’s face doesn’t say it all. 

“Do you want to talk?” 

Kristin shakes her head. 

They sit in silence then, comfortably, as long as time will allow. She lets herself slump against Eden’s side, and Eden lets her play with the end of her braid.  
  
“Come on,” she says finally. “Let’s get you dolled up.” 

“Makeup’ll be here soon.” 

“No they won’t. I told ’em anyone who knocks on your door gets decapitated.” 

Kristin actually smiles. “My hero.”

“Damn right. Get your ass in that chair.” 

Kristin does as she’s told, dragging herself to the chair facing her mirror and reaching for the bottle of primer. She watches Eden grab a brush and the palette of foundation and thinks she might actually survive the night.

 

+++

 

It's easier to blame Joe. It's always easier to blame Joe. 

He knocks politely and honest to god smiles when Kristin lets him in and if that isn’t enough indication of trouble, she doesn’t know what is. 

“Hey,” he says brightly. “We’re working on contracts, should be ready next week.” 

Kristin watches him for a moment, and she thinks it might be enough. He has to know; he must.

“Um,” she starts, twisting her hands together. “I’ve decided not to stay.” 

He looks a little more surprised than she’d expected, but it could be an act. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Look, I… I know we’re not always...” 

“No -- no.” She smiles, hoping it comes off as warm. “It has nothing to do with you. I’ve got something lined up in L.A.” 

“Oh. Well… I guess that makes this easier.” 

“What?”

He fidgets for a moment, then looks her in the eye. “We’re backing Dee for the Tony.”

Kristin smiles at the floor. She’s not sure if it’s a real smile or if it’s filled with bitterness; it’s been hard nailing down the emotions lately. But there’s certainly no surprise, and there might be a shred of happiness, if nothing else. She imagines the look on Idina’s face when she’ll win (because she will, that’s just how these things go), how happy she’ll be, and that’s enough to cover whatever jealousy may be looming under the surface. 

“This was tough,” Joe says. “You know we can’t -- ”

“Have you told her yet?” 

“I -- no.” 

“Let me. She doesn’t know I’m leaving yet, it’ll... soften the blow.” 

“...Are you sure?” 

Kristin raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m gonna be a bitch.” 

“No, I just -- ” He sighs. “Things aren’t the same with you two.”

“No, they’re not.”

“What happened?” 

“Is it affecting the show?” 

“...Not anymore.” 

“Then I have to insist that it’s none of your business.” 

Joe rolls his eyes. “I was just asking as a friend.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

In the moment of silence, it becomes clear the conversation is over, but Joe looks restless. 

“Can I just -- ” he starts, laughing to himself. “I’m just gonna ask one question. And you’ll laugh, or you’ll be totally offended, but -- were you -- were you two -- ”

“Whatever you’re asking, I’m not going to answer it.”

Joe looks at her for a long time, and she looks back. She’s never lost a staring contest, but she can’t say the truth has never leaked out in the midst of one, either. She hopes the warning escapes with it. She’s probably got enough dirt on Joe that she doesn’t need to worry, but it’s worth the reminder. 

Joe nods, finally. “Hey. Look, you’ve been a fucking badass Glinda, I never wanted anyone else for this, and if you could see the way she looks at you when you’re on stage, you’d know she feels the same.” 

Kristin stares at him, calculating. 

Maybe it’s a test. She never could tell, with him.

 

-

 

If Idina’s surprised to see her, or affected, or repulsed, she doesn’t show it. It’s progress, but it hurts. 

“Hey,” Kristin says. 

Idina swipes a few final strokes of purple over her cheekbones, not looking away from the mirror. “Hey.” 

“Joe’s working on contracts.” 

“I know.” She presses the top back onto the powder, setting the brush aside. “You're not renewing.”

Kristin’s mouth falls open. Slowly, she shakes her head. 

“Twenty minutes.” Idina meets her eyes for a moment in the mirror, then quickly looks away. “You should get ready.” 

“You’re not surprised.” 

“I know you. You always forget that.” 

“But. I never -- ” 

“You don't spend six months fucking someone's brains out without somewhere along the way dissecting every damn gear that makes them tick.” 

Kristin’s jaw stiffens. “If you know me so well, you should know how much it hurt to make this decision.” 

“Oh, cry me a fucking river, Kristin.”

Idina grabs her hat and crosses the room, swinging the door open and stalking out with Elphie’s braid swinging behind her. Kristin’s close on her heels, oblivious to anything else as she follows her down the hall. 

“You’re not the only one who’s in pain!”

Idina laughs bitterly, stopping in her tracks and spinning around. 

“Always the fucking victim, right? This is great -- no, seriously. This is great, now I won’t have to pretend anymore, now I can actually _enjoy_ my job again instead of putting on this fucking act every day.” 

“But you're so _good_ at the act, honey, that's why they're giving you the fucking Tony.” 

Kristin’s eyes catch up too late as Joe, Michelle, and three techs round the corner behind Idina, slowly stuttering to a halt. If looks could kill, Kristin would be a goner and Joe’d be facing a life sentence. 

By the time she meets Idina’s eyes, the shock has fully set into the sharp, green features.

“What?” Idina says softly. 

But it’s too late. Kristin’s worked her magic, twisting the melting pot of emotion into something tangible and foul. 

“Congratulations,” she deadpans, and turns on her heel.

 

+++

 

She expects a swift materialization of Joe’s rage. She expects confrontation from the others, pissy texts; questions at least. She expects to be bitched out by everyone who thinks Idina is someone to protect, someone who can’t handle her own emotions. 

The worst part is, now Kristin knows they’re right. They were right all along to protect her. From Kristin. 

But nothing happens. No one calls her out. In fact, no one even looks at her. 

Idina least of all, when Kristin steps into her dressing room the next day. Kristin sits down beside her and waits for a reaction, but it’s a full three minutes before Idina even lifts her eyes. 

Kristin feels the first tear trickle down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

“For what.” 

“ _Everything_.” 

Idina shrugs, lifeless. “You can’t fix this, Kristin. Any of it. You just can’t.” 

“Ever?” 

“I… I don’t know.”

Kristin takes her hand, stroking her thumb over the ridges and lines of Idina’s fingers. They both stare down at the movement, and Kristin recalls the first time they held hands like this; how surreal it felt, and how electrifying. The first time they admitted… to everything. Or at least to something that would become everything. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving.” 

Kristin closes her eyes. “I know.” 

“I hate L.A.” 

“I know.” 

“Sorkin till trying to get in your pants?” 

Kristin gently releases her hand, straightening herself up. “Idina, they’re writing the part _for me_.” 

“So... yes.” 

“Oh, because that’s the only way I’d get on television, right?” 

Idina looks at her, lowering her head. “Sorry.” 

“This is about you, isn’t it? You think I’m leaving _you_.” 

“Oh, fuck you, I don’t need _you_ of all people accusing me of ego.” 

Kristin bites back the retort, instead pushing herself to her feet and drawing in a deep breath. 

“I don’t want to _do_ this anymore.” 

“I don’t either.” 

They both sound exhausted, like they’ve achieved defeat half a dozen times. They sound like a couple on the brink of divorce after a decade of uphill battles. They might as well be, for all they’re losing. 

“You see?” Kristin says softly. “You see… what we would’ve become?”

“Okay, no, _no_ \-- ” Idina’s eyes flash dark as she leaps to her feet. “ _This_ is a fucking self-fulfilling prophecy, Kristin, the only reason we’re _like_ this is because you broke my fucking heart! We could’ve been _happy_!” 

“...Do you really believe that?” 

Idina curls her hands into fists at her side, exasperated, as her eyes squeeze shut. Kristin can see her forcing herself away from the outburst, burying it all back down where it belongs, taking breaths until her voice evens out. 

“When’s your last day?” 

“I don’t know yet. Late July.” 

Idina nods absently at the wall. 

“I -- I don’t want to spend it like this,” Kristin says. 

What gets them there is a series of tiny, tentative movements. Each one could easily result in Idina bolting from the room or pinning her against the wall, and Kristin isn’t even sure which would be harder to handle.

She manages to reach out and touch Idina’s hip, gradually moving forward until she’s slipped both arms around her waist and gets close enough to rest her cheek on Idina’s chest. Idina trembles at the touch, her arms stiff at her sides until it’s all too much and they circle around Kristin, holding her close. They’re pressed so tightly against each other that Kristin can barely breathe, but she doesn’t need to. They cry silently together, not for the first time nor the last.

They’ve made it this far. They might just make it to the end.

 

+++

 

Kristin does everything she can to keep it upbeat and Idina plays along, but she cracks before intermission and never fully recovers.

After Idina says _Stay with me_ , they never quite make it back into character. 

The party is as warm as it could be. Even Joe’s forgiven her, but Kristin can tell she’s already lost friends, if she had them to begin with. Idina hovers close by Michelle’s side most of the night, and Kristin knows she’s going to have to make the effort herself if she wants any closure. 

By the time she gets the courage, Idina’s gone.

 

-

 

She should’ve called first. 

It’s her first and only thought as Taye swings the door open, overcoming the surprise with a smile. 

“Hey!”

“Hey.” Kristin recovers quickly. “I -- I thought you were still in L.A.” 

“Came back early. Seemed like she needed me, but…” 

Kristin shakes her head. “No, of course. I’m sorry, I’ll just -- ” 

“You looking for her?” 

“I just…” Kristin shifts the weight between her feet, drumming a finger against the doorframe. “We didn’t really… get to say goodbye. I just wanted…” 

“She’s up on the roof. She told me she wanted to be alone for awhile, but…” 

Kristin meets his eyes. The warmth has drained a little, and there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before. She wonders, briefly, if he knows, and dismisses the thought. Would it even matter, now? 

“Okay.” She takes a step back. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” He stops her as she’s halfway to the stairwell, and smiles. “Congrats. _West Wing_ , right?” 

Kristin smiles back. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

His smile fades as he retreats back inside, closing the door, and Kristin tumbles into the stairwell. She has to force down the memories of the last time she was here, with Idina leading the way, a bag of ice cream cartons and a bottle of wine in tow. It feels like it’s part of another lifetime, but things you’ve lost always do. 

Idina is slumped back against the same oversized terra cotta pot, staring up at the murky midnight sky with a cigarette between her fingers and a dancing tendril of smoke floating upward from her lips. She’s still in the dress she wore to the party: a short, strapless green number that shows off everything she’s got, but the strappy stilettos are gone. She’s barefoot, ankles crossed, and Kristin aches to slip a hand between her thighs and spread them open. 

Idina glances over when the rooftop door swings open, but doesn’t react, turning back to the sky and releasing a defiant ring of smoke into the air.

Kristin sighs, marching over to her and taking a seat. She reaches for the cigarette but Idina’s reflexes are sharp and she jerks her arm away, looking at Kristin like she’s insane.  
  
“Hey. No. This is quality shit.” 

Kristin looks closer. It’s not a cigarette at all. 

“Are you smoking pot?!” 

Idina snorts. “Sorry, _mom_.”

Kristin’s jaw drops and Idina glances at her sideways, smirking. 

“Never tried it, have you?” 

“Are you insane? You’re gonna wreck your voice, you know that, right? And since when do you get high?” 

Idina shrugs. “It’s Taye’s. I hardly ever do it. Just sometimes when I’m not in a show.” 

“You’re in a show.” 

“Off tomorrow. I’ll drink tea.”

Kristin huffs, turns away, and crosses her arms over her chest. It only seems to encourage Idina, and out of the corner of her eye, Kristin watches three rings in succession rise up, expand, and vanish.

“You don’t get to do this,” she says softly. “You don’t get to shut down now.”

“Kristi. Relax.” Idina meets her eyes, and smiles loosely. “I’m okay.” 

For good measure, Kristin glares at her for a good minute, then stares off into the city with her, silent. Eventually Idina offers her the joint, and Kristin shrinks away.

“Um, _no_ , thank you.”

“You don’t have to sing anymore.” 

It’s a fair point, but it’s also probably the saddest thing Idina’s ever said to her. 

Kristin lets her eyes wander over as Idina brings it back to her lips, inhaling deeply. It shouldn’t be sexy, it’s just a burning roll of toxins, but Kristin can’t tear her eyes away. She knows Idina can see her staring, even if she refuses to spare Kristin a glance. 

“You sure?” 

Kristin shrugs. She’s not really sure of anything, anymore. 

“Come here.” Idina pulls herself up, shifting until she’s facing Kristin -- a mirror of their first kiss. “Easier like this. Won’t hit you as hard. Just breathe slow and don’t hold it in too long or you’ll start coughing.” 

Kristin swallows the lump of nerves in her throat, sitting up and bracing herself. She knows the theory, but nothing can prepare her for the promise of Idina’s lips on hers after months of absence. 

Idina takes a long drag and leans in, parting her lips and sealing their mouths together as her hand cups Kristin’s cheek to hold her in place. Kristin feels the smoke swirl into her mouth and breathes in, drawing it down into her lungs as slowly as she can. She can feel the cough threatening but fights it, desperate to keep the contact as long as possible. 

Finally, Idina breaks the seal enough for them to breathe, letting them both draw in a scrap of air, then surges forward to bring her lips back to Kristin’s, pressing harder. It’s too right, too natural and Kristin lets her in without a second thought, their tongues finding each other easily. Her head is spinning, but she knows it’s not the high. 

Seems fitting, that their first and last kisses were never meant to exist at all. 

“Be safe,” Idina whispers when they separate, pressing their foreheads together. “Promise me.” 

“Promise you that I’ll survive? That I’ll never let go, Jack?”  
  
Idina laughs, breathless. “I hate you.”  
  
“I love you.” 

“You love terrible movies.” 

“ _Titanic_ is _not_ terrible!” 

Idina kisses her again, shutting her up. “I love you, too.”

Kristin commits the sentiment to memory -- every sound, every inflection; the curve of the words; the way Idina’s breath had skipped, breaking off at the end -- just in case.

Just in case she never hears it again.

 

+++

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is this what you need?”_

___________

 

Broadway hails its kings and queens, but Hollywood will spit you out as soon as look at you, and Kristin is nowhere near immune. 

She doesn’t know politics and she doesn’t know the cast. It’s nothing she can’t handle, but she wonders more than once if she’s in over her head. She’s never come into a project midway through, much less at a level of established prestige that demands her complete surrender of control.

But Richard buys her lunch and they talk about how they miss the theater and Allison is hilarious and swears a lot and Kristin stops second-guessing herself. They make each other laugh and she feels happy -- happy enough, sometimes, to forget what she left behind. 

She looks at her phone too often, despite knowing the name isn’t going to show up because it goes against the fundamental rules of departure. It’s the job of whoever’s doing the leaving to keep in touch; everyone knows that. Otherwise the one you left behind appears pathetically lost without you, and no one wants to admit to that even if it’s the truth. 

Even if sometimes she forgets who left. 

Denny tells her about the asshole in line at Starbucks and about the scandalous typo that almost made it into the ad campaign and about the cute college intern who turned out to be a cute high school intern, and Kristin laughs.

It’s easy to laugh here. It’s warm and breezy and sunny, and in L.A., if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.

 

+++

 

  
Kristin calls her after three months and doesn’t wait as long the next time. 

They walk the tightrope of propriety, infusing it with enough flirtation for it to feel natural, playing along like it’s a game, like she’s never come apart with Idina’s fingers buried inside her, like she’s never fallen asleep with her cheek on Idina’s bare chest and their hands clasped between them and the sheets smelling of perfume and sex. Idina’s a good actress and Kristin never gave her enough credit for it. There’s a lot, she suspects, that she never gave her enough credit for.

By the third time, the silences begin gravitating away from awkward and closer to comfortable.

“What are you doing?” 

Kristin glances up at the TV and back to the stove where her pasta is bubbling lazily. “Watching CNN.” 

Idina snorts. “Why?” 

“Research.” 

The snort escalates into a full, open laugh. “You’re adorable.” 

“I’m a very serious actress, Idina.” 

“Yeah? You learnin’ about some foreign policy? Catchin’ up on congressional hearings?” 

“Shut up!” 

“God no, this is fun.” 

Kristin smiles. Idina’s voice is a fucking oasis, too close and too far and probably not even real. 

“Michelle misses you,” she says at the end of every call. 

Kristin says, “I miss her too,” and they pretend it’s safe.

 

+++

 

Aaron is completely unfazed by her -- her madness, her ego, her insecurities and compulsions -- he just laughs it off. He doesn’t let her get away with bullshit, doesn’t pander to her passive-aggressive bids for attention, and thus earns her respect. He doesn’t talk to her the way other men do, like she’s some ditzy, fragile blonde who has to be seduced, handled, catered to and coddled. He talks to her like she’s smarter than she really is -- a temptation that isn’t worth resisting. 

He’s also surprisingly good with his tongue, and if she’s imagining someone else’s, no one has to know. 

She tells him about Idina, after awhile -- at least in abridged form. He laughs, “Got a thing for us Jews, huh?” and she looks away, bites back a smile, and that’s that. 

It’s love, in a way, and it fits as long as it fits. 

The day she signs on for _The Apple Tree_ , he smiles and tells her she’s going to make the sexiest Eve ever, and it’s never been so easy to leave.

 

+++

 

When Idina’s name glows across her screen at two in the morning after a six-month silence, Kristin tells herself she’s ready for whatever comes with it. 

She isn’t. 

She hears the crying before she’s even said hello, but they’re not panicked tears or trauma tears. She’d recognize them anywhere.

They’re heartbreak tears. 

“Honey,” Kristin starts slowly, “what is it? What’s wrong?” 

“I slept with Helen.” 

Kristin blinks in the darkness, trying to wake herself up. “What? Helen… who?” 

“Helen Dallimore.” 

It takes her a moment to connect the dots. Idina’s in London. Helen’s in the show. Helen’s… 

Glinda. She slept with her Glinda. 

Her heart’s pounding as she looks at the clock. It’d be seven in the morning there. She didn’t just fuck her; she spent the whole night with her. The sheets probably smell like her, like _them_ \-- hell, she could still be there in the next room. Making coffee. Wearing Idina’s hoodie… the soft, faded blue one that Kristin loved the most. 

She feels sick. 

“Why?” she asks. 

“Because I missed you.” 

Kristin closes her eyes. 

Idina doesn’t sound drunk; she doesn’t even sound hungover. She did this sober. 

She can hear Idina trying to steady her breath, trying to stop sniffling, and wonders why she bothers. It’s a mess and Idina should let it be a mess, let it be what it is. Face it, for God’s sake. What does it matter, anyway? Even if Kristin feels stupidly overwhelmed. Even if they’d been each other’s first and only female lover. Even if everything feels off, wrong and upside down. 

“Kris… are you still there?”

Kristin feels the tears sting behind her eyes, a predictable threat. “Yes.”

“Do you hate me?” 

“No.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? You can fuck whoever you want.” 

Being away from Idina for so long, the profanity feels foreign on her tongue. Even then, it’s a word she’d only use in the bedroom when she’d start to unravel… or when she was truly angry. 

“She wasn’t you,” Idina says. “I -- I tried -- but she wasn’t you, and I couldn’t sleep and she left and the sheets smell like her and it’s not you.” 

Her words cut off in another sob and Kristin wills herself to breathe. She feels a wet streak run down each cheek. It’s cold, and it’s a fucking cold September anyway and her bedroom is cold and she’s so, so tired of sleeping alone. 

“It’s okay,” she says automatically. “It’s gonna be okay. You need to get some sleep.” 

“Please don’t go.”

“I’m making it worse. You don’t need me right now. You need to sleep and then you need to clear your head and make sure you guys are cool ’cause they’re paying you thirty grand a week and you owe it to them to kick ass on that stage.” 

It’s not at all what she set out to say, even if it’s the truth, even if Idina deserves it a little, not that she does -- but Kristin can’t feed this. She can’t let it snowball into the type of comfort that’s only going to hurt worse in the light of day. 

“I’m sorry,” Idina says finally, and hangs up. 

Kristin falls to the bed, letting the phone slip between the sheets, and squeezes a fistful of blankets in each hand.

She’s seen the pictures online. Helen’s cute and they’re cute together, and she’s clearly dazzled to be working with Idina. Did Kristin take that for granted? Did she ever appreciate her as much as Idina deserved? 

If she can’t even tell the difference between jealousy and regret, she has no business feeling anything at all. 

But she does. For two weeks. She spends two full, pathetic weeks feeling irrationally angry, irrationally betrayed, unable to comprehend why anyone would put themselves through a moment of pleasure for the agonizing pain that follows -- until a single line of text convinces her to find out for herself. 

_HEY SEXY LADY ;) You’re back in town, aren’t you?_

It must be a year since they last spoke, maybe more, but Kristin's heard about her finally leaving _Wicked_ , if she hasn't already. She stares at Eden’s name and the little picture that pops up next to it. It's easy to remember snapping the shot backstage as Eden had struck a pose, hamming it up with a goofy grin and flailing arms. 

Enlightenment only seems to strike when you least expect it. 

 _I am_ , she replies. _When’s your last show?_

 

+++

 

Kristin can’t quite piece together how they actually made it here to her bed with soft, nimble fingers peeling off her dress, but she’s trying. 

She remembers the way Eden had swept her off her feet into a hug when Kristin showed up in her dressing room with flowers at intermission. She remembers handing her more than one unnecessary drink, later, flirting with her all night, throwing caution to the wind and asking her if she wanted to duck out of her own farewell party and come hang out at Kristin’s place to catch up properly, without all the noise and distraction. She remembers how Eden’s smile had widened, and how she nodded. 

She remembers taking note of Eden’s pants -- baggy camouflage khakis that were all too ridiculous to be a coincidence -- and asking her in the elevator where she got them. 

“I stole them from Idina like two years ago,” she’d confessed, giggling hopelessly into her hands. “Don’t tell her!” 

But the memory already had its grip on her, pulling her in against her will. 

 _(She watches from the bed, perfectly content to remain nakedly sprawled across it as Idina pulls on her clothes: an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, beat-up Doc Martens, and a pair of loose camo khakis with cargo pockets. Kristin can’t help laughing._  

 _“What?!”_  

 _“You are such a lez.”_  

 _Idina surveys her ensemble and smirks. “Whatever. Who spent the last hour with her head between my legs before_ finally _letting me come?”_

 _Kristin grins, trailing her fingertips down over her chest, then lower. “I like to tease.”)_  

She remembers getting them into the apartment, trying to imagine she was drunker than she really was, because the next step had Eden pinned to the inside of Kristin’s front door with Kristin on her tiptoes, kissing her with clear, unequivocal intent. 

Eden had been surprised, and Kristin kept it short to gauge a reaction. Eden had stared at her, breathless, smiled and said, “Really, Cheno?” 

Too scared to answer, Kristin had only shrugged and licked her lips. 

Thirty seconds later, she was being carried to the bedroom. 

She hears her dress hit the wall in a soft _whoosh_ of fabric as her hands fumble with the buttons on Eden’s top. It’s dark enough, Eden’s hands are warm and surprisingly confident, Kristin can make out a tinge of green at her hairline and another smudge on her ear, and there’s a lingering blend of Gershwin scents still clinging to them both, taking Kristin eons into the past where a roaring rush of pain and longing surges forth, propelling her forward. 

They pause when they’ve stripped each other down to bras and panties, sitting cross-legged and knee-to-knee on the bed. Eden’s still smiling, running her hands lightly up and down Kristin’s thighs, just like Idina would do when she wanted to savor the moment. Kristin’s far too sober now, they both are, but it only strengthens the need for escape. 

Eden looks at her with a twinkle in her eyes. “You of all people… never would’ve thought.” 

Kristin blushes. “Have you ever…”  
  
“I know the basics,” Eden assures her with a wink, her strokes growing bolder. “What do you like? Can I fuck you?”

Kristin’s tongue catches in her throat. She’s never had this kind of sex, casual friend-sex where you get to giggle and play and it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not what she really wants but there’s only one thing in the world she really wants, and she can pretend, once she’s lost in this. By then she’ll be able to imagine anything. 

“I -- yeah.” She nods, firmly. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Would you…” She starts to lose her nerve under Eden’s gaze, but it’s not like there’s any room left for inhibitions. “Would it be weird if I wanted you to just… take control?”

Eden grins. “That’s kinda my style anyway.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“So you’ve...” 

“It’s… been awhile.” 

“How long?”  
  
“Two and a half years.”

It’s out before she’s even allowed it. She’d forgotten, in just two years, how comfortable Eden makes her, how difficult and pointless it is to hide around her that Kristin had long ago given up trying. 

Eden’s face shifts. Kristin can practically hear the gears churning in her head, see the epiphany taking shape. The math isn’t hard. It matches up perfectly; she has to know. She can’t not. 

“I... think I understand.” 

It’s the politest way anyone could’ve said _Holy shit, seriously?_ and Kristin remembers to be grateful despite the anxiety rising up inside her. 

Eden sees that, too, taking Kristin’s hands and squeezing them in reassurance. Kristin is sure this is the end of it, that it’s going to be too weird and she’s going to see right through everything and _Look, maybe we shouldn’t do this_. It’s not fair, anyway, what Kristin’s trying to do -- not to herself and definitely not to Eden, and she’s fully prepared for the dose of self-loathing that’s bound to spring up over the next two breaths. 

Eden slides her hands up to Kristin’s wrists, rubbing gently, and says, “What's your safe word?” 

The next two breaths never come. Kristin holds them in, processing the shock as she studies Eden’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt. But they’re resolute, sharp and set and fully aware. 

Is this really what Kristin wants? Can she trust her with this, now that she knows? Should she even _let_ her? 

Eden’s words echo, spreading out over her thoughts as the flashback bursts to the forefront of her mind. 

 _(The music, pumping as loud as they dare, carefully selected to drown out incriminating sounds; Idina’s iPod resting beside the bed near the stereo, just a vague shape in the near-darkness. The words pulsing through their bodies over the deep, sultry bass. Idina giggling against her lips as Kristin tries to lift up to meet her and fails._  

_“Wait, wait. We should have a safe word, right?”_

_Kristin raises an eyebrow. “What are you planning on doing to me?”_  

 _Idina grins wickedly. “I’m not sure yet.”_  

 _Kristin smiles, tugging a little on the scarves coiled tight around her wrists, testing the resistance. “It’s supposed to be something totally random, right?”_  

 _“Mmhm… but like, not so weird that it kills the mood.”_  

 _She thinks, letting the deep, penetrating rhythm and liquid lyrics wash over her. She’s hopelessly wet already, but Idina will find out soon enough. Kristin glances over at the stereo, looks back, and smirks._  

 _Idina bursts out laughing, letting her head fall to Kristin’s chest as they succumb to giggles._  

 _It might be the last time Kristin remembers being purely, blissfully happy.)_  

Kristin closes her eyes. “Peaches.” 

There’s a second of silence, then Eden’s humming a familiar bass line. 

“ _Huh, what?_ ” she mimics the lyric, uncanny, and Kristin smiles, opening her eyes to see Eden smiling back. “Dude, I love her.” 

Kristin is at ease, instantly, because Eden’s too damn good at this. This shouldn’t be easy; it shouldn’t even be happening -- and Kristin may not deserve it but she’s sure as hell not about to turn it down. 

After a moment, Eden’s smile fades. Her eyes darken. Her fingers tighten. 

She says, “Turn over.” 

“What?” 

“Turn over. On your knees.” 

Kristin stares, trying to catch up. 

“You heard me.” 

It’s a strange, crystal-clear sort of blur as Kristin obliges, trying not to tremble as she feels Eden moving behind her. There are hands gliding smoothly up her back, unhooking her bra in the subtlest, most effortless movement, then carefully pulling the straps off her arms, one by one. She holds her breath as her panties start to slide over her ass and down her legs, and then Eden is right there beside her, one hand spread protectively over the small of her back, her lips brushing Kristin’s ear.  
  
“Is this what you need?” 

Half mortified at herself, she nods.

“Did she call you ‘baby’?” 

Kristin squeezes her eyes shut. She nods again. 

“Figured she would.” 

She starts to move away but Kristin reaches out a hand and grabs her wrist, holding her in place without looking up. 

“You knew?”

“No. Not until now.”

“Did anyone else…”

“No.” Eden’s free hand strokes circles against her back, soothing. “You’re safe, baby.” 

Kristin lowers her head, and lets herself go. 

It’s not Idina, but it’s overwhelmingly close, and Kristin can’t help but wonder if that’s an accident. Eden had read it all, somehow, and orchestrated the entire scene around it: turning her away so she could pretend it’s someone else behind her. The endearment, to pull her in. The safe word, in case Kristin can’t handle it. She knows exactly what Kristin needs from her, just like always. 

She’s a natural. She’s kinky. And she's more like Idina in this than she ever was on stage. It’s almost shocking until Kristin realizes this is what Eden did for a living, for two years: she watched Idina. She modeled everything she did after her. In some ways, she knows her better than Kristin does. 

After everything… after Helen... after all this time... does Kristin still know her at all? 

The thoughts don’t last; Eden doesn’t let them. Her touch is fire and her fingers are the flames, coaxing heat from the very depths of Kristin’s being, all the places that have gone untouched this way for far too long. She whispers in her ear things she shouldn’t know, couldn’t know, things Idina would say to her, maybe things she really did say, or maybe Kristin’s memories have all been warped by pain and the real ones are lost in time. 

But Eden fucks her until Kristin forgets what’s real, and when another hand finally reaches around to bring her over the edge, Kristin has to bite her tongue because they both know which name would escape. 

Eden’s pulling her into her arms before Kristin even registers the tears streaming down her face. The crystal-clear is gone, and everything simply blurs. It’s like those first mornings after a break-up: you forget for a few half-conscious moments that they’re gone, and when you remember, it’s like losing them all over again. 

Kristin clings to her as she cries, trying to ignore all the parts of her that look and feel and smell too much like Idina. But Eden helps, falling immediately back into herself to spare Kristin any more devastating illusions. She’s whispering absently to her, only half in English, but Kristin picks up a few words here and there, _querida_  and other sweet nothings, and pieces it together. 

 _You’re okay_ , she’s saying. _You’re going to be okay._  

“Was this a mistake?” she asks when everything dissolves to silence.

“No.” Kristin shakes her head. “No. You were perfect.”

Eden settles into the pillow so they’re parallel, face to face, and runs her hand gently up and down Kristin’s side. 

“I know it hurts like hell,” she says. “I’m sorry… I had no idea.” 

Kristin shakes her head and presses her finger to Eden’s lips. She’s not allowed to feel bad about this, not after the amazing things she’s just done, and Kristin’s going to make damn sure she knows it. She kisses her, deep and thorough, letting her hand venture lower until Eden gasps. 

“You don’t have to -- “ 

“I _want_ to.” 

She doesn’t protest any more, but Kristin wouldn’t let her if she did. She slides all the way down her body, partly terrified of eye contact, but mostly because she’s good at this. She learned fast and she likes it, the power of casting someone under a spell with only her tongue. Eden clearly isn’t expecting it, and her surprise only compels Kristin to drive her further, slipping one finger inside and then two, and then the only sounds are breathy nonsense and a gorgeous string of Spanish expletives. 

They kiss without another word until everything feels as normal as it can. Eden spoons her from behind, a last offer of escape, but Kristin turns over in her arms until they’re face to face. 

Come what may and hell to pay, she’s done pretending.

 

-

 

Kristin hobbles into the kitchen in her dressing gown, absently swearing off tequila out of habit. 

Eden’s seated at the table, fully dressed, with two steaming cups of coffee and two giant, fluffy blueberry muffins Kristin recognizes from the cafe downstairs. She gives Kristin a wide open smile and nudges an empty chair away from the table with her foot. 

“I couldn’t decide if I should be there when you wake up or spare you the awkward morning after… so I compromised and decided to feed you.” 

Kristin smiles and takes the invitation. The steaming mug brings her back to life and she spends awhile simply breathing it in while Eden digs into her muffin, chewing quietly. 

Kristin picks a corner off hers and turns it over in her fingers. Eden’s staring at her, but Kristin supposes she’s entitled.

“How did you know?” Kristin asks. 

“That you really wanted Idina, or that you're a secretly slightly homophobic careeraholic who's terrified of needing anyone and doesn't know when it's safe to stop performing?” 

Eden’s smile creeps back, warm and affectionate to Kristin’s slack-jawed stare. 

“It was my job, y’know. Watching people. We standbys can see _eeeverything_.” 

“Did you just quote _Toy Story_?” 

“Mhm,” she answers over a bite of muffin. “Was it creepy enough?”

“Totally.” 

Eden sips her coffee, seemingly satisfied, as Kristin finally brings her own mug to her lips, willing the caffeine into liquid inspiration. 

“I'm sorry. I'm such an asshole.” 

“No you're not. You're human. And -- for fuck's sake, if Idina had ever looked at me the way she looked at you I probably would've fallen for her too.” 

“I wish it had just been you.” The confession surprises her, a little, mostly to find that it’s true, and she looks up to find Eden watching her, rapt and disarmed. “Last night. I still would've liked it, you know. You being you. I shouldn’t have asked you to…” 

“You didn't ask.” 

“But I…” 

“It's okay.” 

“I feel so…” 

“Kristin. It's okay.”

In a single moment, she considers all the possibilities. Eden’s eyes are mesmerizing, which Kristin had always forgotten until they were on stage together. She’s nurturing and funny and sexy and laidback, and discreet to a fault when the situation demands it. She’s happily single, she’s young, she’d never ask for a commitment, and she happens to carry around that miraculous little talent of anticipating everything Kristin needs, which is more than a little appealing to someone who’s spent the better part of two years failing to convince herself she doesn’t need anything. 

Kristin lets another dose of coffee trickle down her throat, then gathers the nerve. 

“Do you wanna hang out sometime?”

Eden smirks. “Lunch or sex?” 

“I -- I don't know.” 

“That means sex.” 

Kristin stares at the table, flushed. “Not like last night.” 

Eden sighs. “I... would really like to. But I can't.” 

Kristin nods quickly, covering her disappointment, and Eden reaches across the table to take her hand. 

“I don't think that's what you need right now.” 

“I don't know what I need.” 

“You got a therapist?” 

“No.” 

“Get a therapist.” 

“A therapist can’t tell me what I need.” 

“Nah, but they’ll charge two hundred bucks an hour to _ask_ you what you _think_ you need, and you’ll call ’em a genius.” 

Kristin smiles. “It would've been so much easier… with you. If it had been you all along.” 

“Oh Christ, I feel so friendzoned right now!” Eden tosses her head back and laughs. “Except no one in the friendzone gets to have mind-blowing sex, I guess.” 

Kristin raises an eyebrow. “Mind-blowing?” 

“Check your ego, Cheno, half of it was me.” 

Kristin laughs, throws a bit of muffin at her, and for a minute, forgets everything that hurts. 

Maybe she’ll get a therapist.

  
  
+++

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _"Don’t do it.”_   
>    
>  _"Why?"_   
>    
>  _“Because. Tonight is just tonight and tomorrow’s gonna hurt like hell.”_

____________

 

The invitation is beautiful, albeit surreal. Seeing Michelle and Norbert’s names together in an elegant flowing script, all Kristin can think of is how they spent two years swatting each other with Pixie Stix and telling fart jokes like a couple of eight-year-olds. 

They’re perfect for each other. 

It’s a small ceremony and reception at a secluded retreat upstate, she’s been told, just close friends and family and the _Wicked_ team, for obvious reasons. No cameras or press allowed, only the photographer. _Famous for his discretion,_ Michelle had assured her, and Kristin wonders why until she realizes London was six months ago, she hasn’t spoken to Idina since, and there’s no gossip like theater gossip. 

“Michelle says you haven’t RSVP’d,” Eden tells her by way of greeting when Kristin picks up the phone. 

“...I’m fine, thanks, how are you?” 

“She really wants you there. They both do.” 

“I know. I’m waiting on Julie to finalize my schedule.” 

Eden sighs. “Yes. The answer’s yes.” 

“What?” 

“See, you _said_ you were waiting on your schedule, but what I _heard_ was ‘I’m trying to figure out if Idina’s gonna be there without actually asking anyone ’cause I’m a big pussy.’” 

“Damn it, that’s not what I -- ” 

“And she’s going solo so don’t get any ideas.” 

“What? What about -- ”  
  
“He’s got a project.”

“Fine, then be my date.”

“I’ve got one. Take Denny.” 

“If I drag Denny to one more wedding this year he’ll disown me.” 

“Take one of the other million men at your disposal. Or Erin. Or -- ”  
  
“You.” 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” 

If Eden’s going to make a career out of reading Kristin’s mind, then she’s not allowed to play dumb when it counts. Not when she’s the one forcing Kristin to put herself through this in the first place. 

“Fine. But I can’t have sex with you, I’ve got a boyfriend now.” 

“I can’t have sex with you either, my therapist said so.” 

There’s a curt, choppy silence, before Eden bursts out laughing, and Kristin rolls her eyes. 

“You suck and I hate you." 

“See you in three weeks.”

 

+++

 

“So what’s the game plan here?” 

Kristin pulls her attention from the blur of trees whirring past and turns to Eden, who’s got one hand free for gesturing and the other on the wheel, simultaneously balancing a giant, swirly rainbow lollipop she’d insisted upon at the gas station. 

“What?” 

“Like… am I just supposed to just keep you from drunkenly throwing yourself at her, or do you want me to make her jealous? ‘Cause I’m _really_ good at that.” 

“No… God, no…” Kristin shakes her head. “She doesn’t deserve that.”

“I thought she broke your heart.” 

Kristin stares at the floor of the car. It never occurred to her that Eden doesn’t actually know a single detail beyond intuition. What would she think, now, knowing Kristin’s not the victim but the perpetrator? Knowing what she threw away precisely seven hours after _I love you_? 

“No,” Kristin says quietly. “I broke hers.” 

When she finally looks up, Eden’s staring at the windshield like it personally offended her. 

“You… you act like it was the other way around.” 

“It broke mine to do it.” 

She braces herself for the silence and the twenty-four hours of awkward that’s sure to follow. Eden had worshipped Idina from the moment she’d seen her in _Rent_ at seventeen, and now she’s sitting here with the woman who tore her apart and all but lied about it. 

A hand reaches across the seat to cover Kristin’s.  
  
“Why did you do it?” 

“It was a hard decision.” 

It’s as much explanation as she can put together on short notice. There’s silence, as expected, until a red light brings them to a halt and Eden turns to meet her eyes.

“Was it the right one?”

Kristin stares out the window until the light turn green. Eden doesn’t ask again.

 

+++

 

She’s fucking gorgeous. 

Kristin hasn’t seen her in two years but honestly, how could she have _forgotten_?

She’s used to the bold colors and edgy lines that Idina favors in public appearance, but the flowing, pale yellow dress that’s hugging her curves makes her eyes sparkle and the faint gold in her hair shine, and Kristin aches all over. 

Someone’s got her attention when Kristin first sees her, and Idina’s talking with her hands, like always, her smile wide as the words tumble from her lips. Kristin can hear her laugh from the back of the church, and Idina must sense it. She turns her head, their eyes meet, and Idina’s entire aura shifts, losing and gaining focus at once. Time could stand still and they wouldn’t know the difference. 

Kristin smiles first, offering a small wave in greeting before taking her seat. Idina doesn’t quite make it to a smile before the music starts, but Kristin wasn’t expecting one, anyway. 

She watches their friends exchange vows, making forever look impossibly simple, and Kristin is happy. 

Really, she is.

 

-

 

Eden monopolizes Idina as long as she can with subtlety and finesse, leaving Kristin free to make the rounds of guests and champagne until she’s had enough of both and collapses at her now empty table, burying herself in her phone as the band launches into Tony Bennett. 

“Your date’s pretty hot.” 

Kristin’s head shoots up. Idina’s smile is warm and relaxed, likely softened by the same champagne. Up close she’s even more stunning, and as she takes the closest chair, the scent of shampoo and perfume sends Kristin into a dizzy, overpowering time warp. Visuals had been enough to make her forget what might send the other senses reeling. 

She takes a breath and smiles. “She is, isn’t she?” 

“I thought she was bringing her new guy.” 

“She was. He had a… thing.” 

Idina’s not buying it, but she nods appropriately. 

“How was London?” 

“Good, good. It was… good. I hear you’re heading back to L.A.?” 

“Yeah, I’m doing a pilot this fall for ABC.” 

“With Bryan Fuller, right? That’s awesome.”

“Thanks. I think it will be.” 

It could be worse. 

“Are you staying overnight?” 

Kristin looks up, trying to gauge the weight of the question, but Idina’s unreadable. Kristin wonders when that happened; if she’s forgotten their language, or if Idina’s finally learned to keep her heart buried deep in her chest instead of splayed across her sleeve. 

“Yeah,” Kristin says, “we’re driving back in the morning.” 

“...You’re staying with her?” 

Kristin gives her a look, but Idina raises an eyebrow. Without a word, they’ve conquered formalities. 

Kristin panics a little; she knows after you’ve slept with someone, even once, your dynamic is permanently altered. It’s inevitable; she and Eden must look at each other differently now, touch each other differently… but Idina couldn’t possibly be able to tell. She’d never guess, in a million years. She can’t. 

“We have separate rooms.” 

Idina shrugs, looking away. “Never stopped us.”  
  
“She has a boyfriend.”  
  
“Never stopped us either…”

“Idina. I’m not sleeping with her.”

“It wouldn’t be my business if you were.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t.” 

See, it got worse. 

Eden sweeps in from nowhere to request a dance, offering her hand to Kristin and leading her gracefully to the middle of the floor to hide between the rest of the couples, all oblivious to their surroundings. Kristin sighs, drapes her arms around Eden’s neck, and rests her head on her shoulder. She doesn’t care what it looks like; if this is what Idina wants to believe, Kristin might as well give her something to believe in. 

“Thank you,” she says wearily.

“You guys suck at this.” 

“Because she hates me.” 

“No, because she’s still in love with you, you dumbass.” 

Kristin lifts her head, studying Eden’s face, but there’s no trace of humor. She must’ve read it. Some part of Idina had made it blatantly obvious, and Kristin missed it. 

Eden looks up suddenly at a spot behind Kristin, just before Kristin feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns in time to see Idina pull it away, offering a shy smile. 

“Can I have the next dance?” 

Mindlessly, Kristin nods. 

She watches Idina make her way across the room toward the band as the song rolls to a close, and whisper something to the pianist. There’s a brief exchange; Idina touches his arm and laughs -- for God’s sake, she’s _flirting_ \-- before he finally nods, gesturing to the bassist. 

“You good?” Eden asks. 

Kristin nods, and Eden steps away, leaving her alone on the dance floor. Idina catches her eye across the room, waiting for the music to start before slowly moving forward. 

The opening chords make something twist beautifully and painfully in the pit of Kristin’s stomach as she recognizes what’s happening. As Idina steps into her space, falling into the lead, the singer croons the first line into the mic in precisely the same gentle, brushed velvet tone of the original. 

 _Come away with me in the night._  

Idina holds her close, chest to chest and cheek to cheek, and all Kristin can do is close her eyes and let herself feel. It’s not like she hasn’t managed the pain for this long; at least now she’s rewarded for the trouble with a moment in Idina’s arms, no matter how much worse it’ll be when she lets go. 

“Why?” she whispers.

She feels Idina’s lips brush over her cheek, then slide to her ear, and Kristin shivers from head to toe. Idina holds her tighter. 

“Because,” is all she says. 

One minute in her arms, and Kristin feels what Eden must have read. Idina’s touch hasn’t changed. Nothing has changed. Not for her -- and not for Kristin. 

Right now, three years feel like days, and Kristin is terrified. 

 _It goes away. You said it goes away._  

Idina’s lips press lightly to the spot just below her ear as she whispers, “You look incredible.” 

In that moment, Kristin allows herself to admit one of the most devastating truths of her life. 

It doesn’t. It doesn’t go away, it hasn’t, and it won’t.

She shifts in Idina’s arms, pulling back enough to look into her eyes, just to check, but her eyes haven’t changed. They’re filled with love, just as they always were. Denial is pointless. 

They spend the rest of the song like that, lost in each other’s eyes and willing their lips not to meet. Kristin’s arms are draped over Idina’s shoulders with fingers gently stroking the base of her neck, and Idina’s hands have come to rest where they always did: at her hips, her thumbs rubbing slow, hypnotic circles against the slinky fabric of Kristin’s dress. 

The song ends, and Idina lets her go, slowly but without hesitation. She steps backward, blending into the crowd with their eyes still locked, until Kristin’s vision begins to blur.

When it clears, Idina’s gone.

 

-

 

The limo disappears into the stretch of midnight road, and the cheers die down. En masse, the guests begin shuffling away from the pavillion and across the terrace toward the resort, weary and sated. 

Kristin hangs back, leaning against a pillar. She picks a grain of rice from a curl in her hair and flicks it onto the ground, wondering if it’s worth heading back to her room when there’s still so much champagne only ten steps away. Sleep won’t be on her side tonight, and she doesn’t trust herself to share Eden’s room, not when Idina’s perfume is bound to be lingering on them both. 

“Kristin.” 

She looks up, and Idina’s already leaning in, slowly, pressing a kiss to Kristin’s cheek. Kristin leans into it automatically, briefly, and it’s gone. 

Idina looks into her eyes with bold intent before reaching for her hand. Kristin feels something small and flat fit against her palm, as Idina guides her fingers to curl around it. 

“It was good to see you,” Idina says, and turns away. 

Kristin stares down at her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal a post-it folded neatly around a key card. Her heart’s already pounding when she unfolds the paper, scanning the left-handed scrawl like a single day never passed. 

_212 in case you can’t sleep_

 

-

 

Eden stares at the post-it and gives Kristin a look that doesn’t require words.

“No.” 

Kristin sighs, taking back the scrap of paper and key, and collapses onto the edge of the bed. 

“Kristin, _no_. Don’t do it.”

“Why?” 

“Because. Tonight is just tonight and tomorrow’s gonna hurt like hell.” 

“It already hurts. Seeing her always hurts.” 

“Don’t do it.” 

Their eyes meet. They both know the decision’s already been made, if there was one to make at all. 

Eden sighs. “Be back here by nine a.m. or I’m going home without you.”

 

-

 

With clammy palms and racing heart like the very first time, Kristin knocks. She doesn’t think Idina really expected her to just walk in, and the door opens almost instantly, without pretense. Somehow, Idina knew she’d come. Or she’d desperately hoped. Kristin can picture her pacing the room, the way she does, doubting herself with every passing second, wondering if she did the wrong thing, or the worst thing -- because there’s no universe at all where this could be the _right_ thing. 

But the moment she sees her, Kristin doubts even that. 

She steps inside. The door swings shut, and Idina reaches absently behind her to deadbolt it. 

If there’s any question left between them, it’s answered in the half second it takes for their lips to meet. 

It isn’t sweet, but it isn’t rough. It’s simply out of control, clawing and grasping and pulling like they’re trying to climb inside each other and hide. There’s an ache in every touch, every kiss, every point of contact -- an agonizing blend of relief and dread, knowing it’s -- 

“Just tonight,” Kristin breathes against her mouth the first second they pull apart for air, as Idina reaches around to yank the zipper down on her dress. “Just this.” 

Idina nods, clearly in no state to process what she’s agreeing to, and crashes their mouths back together. 

The clothes are gone before Kristin knows it and it’s a short trip to the bed. She feels like she’s on fast-forward, holding Idina tightly flush against her as one hand already wanders lower, unable to wait, unable to go another minute without feeling Idina’s heat beneath her palm. 

Idina’s quick, grabbing her hand and pulling it away. Kristin assumes it’s simply an instinct of dominance, their default dynamic -- and she goes pliant, equally ready for Idina to do with her as she pleases.

Idina doesn’t climb on top, doesn’t pin her wrists overhead with one hand, doesn’t plunge deeply inside her with the other. She pulls Kristin into her arms, wrapping their bodies around each other, buries her face in Kristin’s hair, and holds her as tightly as their bodies can stand. 

Kristin doesn’t know which of them is crying until she feels a drop against her forehead and finds her own cheek damp where it’s pressed to the crook of Idina’s neck. 

They don’t move, they don’t explain, and they don’t ask. There’s nothing to prove; no pride in the way, nor resentment, and Kristin begins to understand. 

They’re grieving, together, for what was lost. 

The next time Idina kisses her, it doesn’t stop. They kiss through broken breaths and choked tears, through wet cheeks and shaking hands, and when they make love, that doesn’t stop either, not until the first sign of dawn washes over their skin hours later, brutally illuminating every corner of reality. 

With her back pressed against Idina’s front, they lie there, motionless and feverishly warm. There’s sweat and come and tears all over them and Kristin doesn’t want to move, even though she estimates they’ve only got two hours left, maybe less. 

She’s certain Idina has fallen asleep until she hears her whisper, “I love you.” 

Kristin forces herself not to react, feigning sleep, until she realizes she’s clutching Idina’s hand so tight that she’s trembling.

 

-

 

Idina watches her get dressed, but Kristin doesn’t look up. She only returns to the bed when she can’t find her underwear, rustling through the sheets, when Idina pulls her back down to the mattress and climbs on top, kissing her like it’s the last time she ever will. 

She moves downward, pushing Kristin’s dress up as she settles between her legs, and Kristin squeezes her eyes shut as she’s pulled into the warmth of Idina’s mouth. 

Idina kisses her after she comes, kisses the half-dried streaks of tears, kisses her chest, kisses her everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. When she sucks a bright red mark into Kristin’s hip, another into her inner thigh, and a third just below her collarbone, Kristin doesn’t even think of stopping her. 

She’s ten minutes late, but Eden doesn’t leave without her. 

Halfway back to Manhattan, Kristin realizes they didn’t say goodbye.

 

+++

 

When her publisher asks for the name of Idina’s manager, Kristin doesn’t stop to wonder why they’d assume she knows. 

 _Hey… I finished my book_. _They’re sending the release forms to Bert, just have him send them back to the address on the forms. Okay?_  

Idina doesn’t respond. Two weeks later, the forms come directly to Kristin’s house in a handwritten envelope with no return address. 

Inside, Idina has signed every one without comment, minus a single post-it stuck to the cover page, which Kristin promptly peels off. 

_Looks like you’re missing a few chapters._

 

+++

 

Idina tells her she’s pregnant over lunch at a pretentious cafe in Santa Monica. She looks the same. Glowing, but the same. She laughs, and Kristin’s pretty sure it’s real. 

Kristin congratulates her with every ounce of enthusiasm she deserves like it’s the best news she’s heard all year. But it is. God works everything out, in the end. Now she gets to start a beautiful family and maybe Taye was right for her, after all. Maybe it’s Kristin who was the mistake -- wouldn’t be the first time in her life -- and maybe this proves it. Maybe the hardest decision Kristin ever made has finally, finally stood the test of time and proven itself worthy. 

Idina smiles, and Kristin’s pretty sure it’s real. 

She asks Kristin when she’s going back to New York for _Promises_ , they talk about Sean Hayes and Kristin tells her how good the salads are here, because she knows Idina’s going to order one anyway. 

“Are you happy?” Kristin asks at the end. 

Idina looks at her for a long time before she says, “Yes,” and Kristin’s pretty sure it’s real.

 

+++

 

The interview is a block from Idina’s apartment by sheer coincidence. 

But it was a good interview, and Kristin’s glad to be home, eager to start rehearsals. She’s feeling strong, she’s feeling positive, and when she pulls her cell out of her purse and dials, she’s not afraid. 

The other line picks up, but all Kristin can hear for five full seconds is high-pitched shrieking. 

“Hello?” Idina’s voice comes through, barely discernible. 

“...This is a bad time.”

“Kristin?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Hi.” 

“Hi.” In the background, Walker launches back into manic newborn wails, full force. “I can call back…” 

“No, no, he’s fine,” Idina says. “It’s naptime, this is our special bonding routine… scream for twenty minutes, give up, scream another few more, pass out… what’s up?” 

Kristin smiles. “I just realized I’m walking through your neighborhood, I had an interview down the street and I had this weird, like, 1950s idea about dropping in. I’m really glad I called first.” 

Walker seems to settle for a moment, and there’s a pause. “You’re _here_?” 

“I mean, I’m a few doors down, but -- ” 

“Oh my God, come in.” 

“No, no, you’re busy, it’s okay!” 

“No, fuck, I want to see you.” There’s some shuffling, giving Kristin just enough time to react to the words. “If you don’t mind your eardrums getting blown out.” 

“We’re just singers. Who needs ears?” 

“Come on, I’ll buzz you up.” 

Kristin had pictured a disaster zone, but the place is surprisingly clean as she steps through the door. Idina herself is the messiest, loveliest part of it all, with frizzy hair pulled back in a bun, yoga pants and a t-shirt three sizes too big for her, holding a tiny little human in her arms and offering a wide open smile. 

She’s never looked more beautiful. 

The crying is deafening up close, but between nieces, nephews, and cousins, Kristin’s seen worse. She leans in for a side hug, giving Idina a kiss on the cheek. It’s too loud to get any words out, but when she looks down at him, at his tiny little hands squeezed into frustrated fists, her heart melts. 

She smiles at Idina over the noise and signs, _He’s beautiful_. 

Idina stares at her, and all sound seems to fade. Something passes over her eyes that Kristin hasn’t seen in two and a half years -- something that, in a cafe in Santa Monica, she had convinced herself no longer existed. 

She looks away quickly, holding her hands out in question. Idina nods, shifting the baby to Kristin’s arms and readjusting his pint-sized blanket. 

Even with the screaming and diapers and sleeplessness, Kristin has missed this. It’s been too long since anyone in her family made one of these happen, and she wonders how many more she’ll get to hold in her lifetime, if not her own. He must be at least three months now, but he’s still impossibly tiny. Kristin always forgets, just how tiny. 

She rocks him side to side and, at the first opportunity, finds herself humming, then expanding to the words -- a soft, soothing rendition of “Pure Imagination.” It’s her secret weapon; no child’s ever been able to resist Willy Wonka songs, no matter their age. 

After a few moments Walker’s contorted face begins to soften as he stares up at her, inexplicably fascinated. Kristin smiles through the remainder of the song, planting a kiss on his forehead when his eyes finally close in surrender. 

Idina’s watching them with her mouth hanging open. 

“You _bitch_ ,” she whispers fondly. “How did you…” 

Kristin smiles, handing him back to his mother. She waits as Idina takes him down the hall to his room, returning with the baby monitor, which she sets down on the kitchen bar. 

“You’re hired.” 

“You wish.” 

Idina smiles, rushing forward to pull Kristin into a proper hug. She feels the same as ever and altogether changed. The remaining baby weight seems to have settled in her breasts and Kristin forces herself not to lean into them, no matter what her own stupid, traitorous body is telling her. 

Idina pulls back, holding her at arm’s length and looking her up and down. “You’re too thin.”

Kristin laughs. “Thanks, _mom_.” 

“I’m serious! Why are you so thin? Are you sick?” 

“I’ve been on TV, stop being a Jewish mother!” 

“I _am_ a Jewish mother!”

“Oh my God, you are.” Kristin smiles, stepping forward to take Idina’s face in her hands. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” 

“Oh, please.” Idina huffs, gently prying her hands away and stepping back. “I still have ten pounds to lose and I will never, ever have my abs back.” 

“Stop.” Kristin steps back up to her, placing her hands on Idina’s shoulders. “You are _gorgeous_.” 

The tension melts from Idina’s frame, only to be replaced by that look in her eyes, and Kristin’s too close to pretend it’s anything else. 

“No one’s called me that in awhile.”

Kristin doesn’t know what to say, so she kisses her. 

It’s chaste, or it could be, were it anyone but them. It could be, if Kristin’s hands didn’t slide up to cup Idina’s neck, rubbing soft circles with her thumbs as Idina’s mouth starts to move against hers. It could be, if Idina’s hands didn’t curl over Kristin’s hips and slide around to her back, pulling her closer. It could be, if their tongues didn’t meet halfway, moving together like they’d never been apart. 

When they separate, there’s no shock or pretense. They don’t try to pretend they didn’t see it coming, and they don’t treat it like the world’s biggest mistake. There’s an understanding between them, for the first time -- a numb, quiet acceptance:

This is what it is. 

“I should go,” Kristin says softly. 

Idina’s hands sneak around to her front, fingering a button on Kristin’s shirt. “Yeah.” 

Kristin closes her eyes as the button pops, feeling her balance sway, and Idina’s hand slips halfway inside to stroke the soft skin just below her breast.

“I should _really_ go.” 

“Okay.” 

Kristin’s entire body protests as she pulls away, quickly fastening her button. 

With one hand on the door, she meets Idina’s eyes with a vague farewell on her lips, which she abandons. They don’t need to say goodbye, because it never really is. 

“Is this ever going to get easier?” 

Idina shakes her head. “No.”

“Why not?” 

“Because we’re in love.”

 

+++

 


	12. Chapter 12

  
___________

  


Idina comes to see her a week after the accident, when Kristin’s still swallowing a cocktail of vicodin, methylphenidate, and cyclobenzaprine. One of them’s for memory but she can’t remember which. 

Idina laughs, smooths her hair away from her forehead, and tells her it’s the worst joke she’s ever heard. 

A brush with death will fuck you up in the head (“No pun intended,” Kristin argues). 

Kristin’s mom stays out of sight, leaving her in Idina’s care for however long the moment lasts. Kristin’s vision isn’t at its peak and Idina’s a little fuzzy around the edges, but her smile is radiant. She holds Kristin’s hand and tells her to sue the fucking lighting director; hell, sue fucking CBS while she’s at it. Kristin waves her off but inside, she melts. Idina’s fierce protectiveness has never faded. 

It really does fuck you up in the head. Knowing your life was almost no more makes you question every decision you’ve ever made, leaving you to frantically wonder where you’d be if only, and how many if-onlys there are. 

Beneath the haze of drugs, Kristin feels a swarm of madly dangerous words crawling toward the edge of her tongue. 

 _I loved you, I love you and I’ll always love you._  

 _Leave him, take me, I’m yours._  

 _Tell me it’s not too late._  

She paraphrases, “Don’t go.” 

Idina stays the night, but she has to work in the morning. Kristin catches sight of her wedding ring and the picture of Walker on her phone, and swallows the rest of the words down, safely back where they belong. 

All except “I love you,” which slips out in a sleepy drawl the next morning when Idina has her hand on the doorknob.

She doesn’t look at Kristin when she says it back, and when Kristin opens her eyes, she’s gone.

 

+++

 

She blinks, but the thick red words on her laptop screen don't change. 

 _TAYE DIGGS AND IDINA MENZEL SEPARATE AFTER 10 YEARS OF MARRIAGE_  

There’s a press photo of them that someone’s photoshopped with jagged red lines through the ripped center. No matter what, it hurts to see. Nearly two decades together reduced to sensationalist gossip. 

She’s not even sure what to feel. Idina hadn’t mentioned anything during the tenth anniversary shoot, and that was only two months ago. She’d seemed a little distant, preoccupied maybe, but then, they barely see each other anymore. 

“ _Call her_ ,” Denny orders. 

“What? No.” 

“She’s getting a fucking divorce, swallow your pride and show some moral support.” 

“That’s not -- I can’t.” 

“You’re an idiot. Man up.” 

“Denny, we’re not… _friends._ If she didn’t tell me herself it’s because she didn’t want to.” 

“Of course she didn’t want to, how would that sound? ‘Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m divorcing my husband ’cause I’m still madly in love with you.’” 

Kristin snaps her laptop shut, glaring at the wall. “She is _not_ still in love with me.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Seriously? It’s been _ten years._ ” 

“Then why did you call me about this?” 

“You called me!” 

There’s silence on the other line, then a sigh. “No, honey. I didn’t.” 

Kristin hangs up. 

When she finally texts her, all she can say is, _Are you okay?_

Idina says, _I’m okay._  

 _I’m sorry_ , Kristin writes. _I’m here. You know I’m here._  

Idina doesn’t respond, but Kristin can fill in the blanks. 

_(No… you’re really not.)_

 

+++

 

 _I kissed Peter and you missed it_ , Andy texts her after Kristin leaves Monday rehearsal early for an appointment. 

She grins, moving toward the pick-up counter to wait for her drink. _No homo without me!_ she replies. A minute later she receives a picture of him and Peter striking Charlie’s Angels poses with an array of Lily’s accessories draped over them both, and Kristin giggles into her palm. 

“Soy caramel latte,” a voice calls, setting a mug on the counter. 

Typing a reply with one hand, Kristin reaches for it blindly, only for her fingers to brush against someone else’s. 

She looks up to see the other hand curl around the mug and follows the line of the arm, up over the shoulder, to -- 

Idina’s eyes are wide, her lips parted and cheeks flushed from the sharp December cold. 

It was bound to happen eventually; this was their place, some decade ago, after rehearsals and shows or in between. It’s not near the theater, but it’s well-hidden and low-key enough that tourists don’t stumble upon it, and no one here ever seemed to notice or care who they were. That was always worth the trip, and still is. 

Idina searches her face, trying to curb her shock. “Since when do you drink soy?”

“Rehearsals. No dairy.” 

“Shit, I forgot. We’re gonna be like two blocks apart.”

As if the thought hadn’t already occurred to Kristin a hundred times. 

“Soy caramel latte with whip." Another mug joins the first on the counter, which Kristin sheepishly picks up.

Idina looks down at the pile of whipped cream and raises an eyebrow. 

“Hey.” Kristin smiles. “I need a _little_ excitement. Since when do you like caramel?” 

Idina smiles back. “I guess I need a little excitement too.” 

The shared look lasts too long to be anything but flirtation, but neither seems to care. 

“Sit with me,” Idina says. 

The old, squishy loveseat is still holding up in the back corner, a little more threadbare these days, but comfortable as ever. They settle easily into it, legs pulled up and facing each other as they clutch their mugs like lifelines. 

“You flying home for Christmas?” 

Kristin nods. “In a few days, yeah. How’s the show?” 

“Good. You should come see it.” 

“I did.” 

Idina freezes, somewhere between shock and joy. “When?” 

“A few months ago.” 

“You never…” 

“I know.” Kristin stares at her drink. “I’m sorry.” 

“Anthony would’ve loved to see you.” 

“I know. I couldn’t stay, though, I had an early flight.” 

It’s weak, they both know it. But Idina’s always been forgiving. 

“You…” Kristin looks up. “You were amazing. Really.” 

Idina smiles shyly. “How’s rehearsals?” 

“Brutal. Fabulous. I’m in love with it all.” 

“I can’t believe you get to work with Peter, I’m so jealous.” 

“I can’t either. He’s brilliant. And he’s _such_ a cutie.” 

“Nowhere near as cute as you.” 

Kristin smiles down at her hands. “Stop flirting with me in public.” 

“Why? I’ve done more than that with you in public.” 

Kristin stares wide-eyed at her, feigning scandalous offense, but Idina simply winks. 

She’d forgotten -- very nearly, at least. Midnight at the park in San Francisco… the back row of a near-empty movie theater two weeks before opening night… 

Idina holds her gaze, bold and unblinking. “What are you doing tonight?” 

Kristin raises an eyebrow. “After six hours of vocals? I’ve got a date with chamomile and honey, what are _you_ doing?” 

Idina smiles. “Come home with me.” 

Kristin’s jaw goes slack. Her heart and breath stop and her hands clench tightly around the mug to keep hold on reality because she’s clearly hallucinating. 

“Not -- not like _that_.” Idina blushes, shaking the thought from her head. “I’m picking up Walker in an hour. I thought... you might want to meet him.” 

“ _Oh._ ” Kristin breathes again, finding a smile. “I -- that’s -- of course I do. I’m just not… I don’t know if...” 

“I’ve got chamomile, too.” 

It’s been a long time. Kristin isn’t sure she recognizes the look on Idina’s face, or if she’s merely projecting something she used to know. But whatever else resides there, Idina’s eyes are pleading for something Kristin might actually be able to give her after all this time: friendship. 

Kristin nods. “Okay.”

 

-

 

“Are you Kristin?” 

Kristin looks down as the door swings open to see a miniature person staring up at her. She’s seen pictures, of course, but, much like his mother, they don’t do him justice. His eyes are Idina’s through and through, but even without bias, he’s legitimately, ridiculously adorable. 

“I am!” She smiles brightly, reaching out to shake his hand. “Are you Walker?”  
  
He nods. “Mom said you were short like me.” 

Kristin hears a snort and looks up to see Idina hiding her face behind a cookbook. 

“Did she really?” Kristin asks, and Walker giggles. “Oh my goodness, is your mom actually _cooking_?” 

“Yeah but last time she burned everything and we got to order pizza so keep your fingers crossed, okay?” 

Kristin practically cackles. 

Idina sets the book down, planting her hands on her hips. “Glad you’ve made introductions. Are you two done ganging up on me?” 

Walker smiles. “No.” 

“You need help?” Kristin asks her.

“I’m _fine_ , thank you very much. It’ll just be another few minutes.”

Kristin feels a tug on her hand and looks down to see Walker pulling her toward the living room. 

“Do you wanna see my piano?” he asks.  
  
“I would _love_ to see your piano!” 

He leads her to it and plants his tiny self on the bench. “I can do two scales and mom taught me Jingle Bells.” 

“That's awesome! Are you taking lessons?” 

His face scrunches up. “No. Mom won’t let me.”

“That is not true!” Idina calls from the kitchen. 

“ _Mom_ ,” Kristin chides, “why aren’t you getting him lessons?!” 

“Sweetie, tell her why.” 

Walker sighs. “Because it's a lot of work and I have to wait two months to make sure I really want it.” 

Kristin bites back a smile. “Two months isn’t so bad. I didn’t even start till I was eight.” 

His eyes light up. “You play?” 

“Not as much now, but I used to.” 

“Play something!” he insists, hopping off the bench. 

“Honey,” Idina calls, “Kristin’s had a long day at rehearsal, she might not feel up to it.”

Kristin smiles. “I think I can manage it. What do you like?” 

“I like the classics,” he says very seriously. 

Kristin looks up at Idina, who grins. 

“What kind of classics?” Kristin asks. 

“Um… I forget.” 

“He likes Mozart,” Idina says. “And Chopin, and Beethoven…”

“Sweetie, in a few years the girls are gonna _love_ you.” 

He beams. 

“No girls!” Idina calls. “Or boys. No dating, ever.”  
  
“Oh, hush.” Kristin settles down on the bench, positioning her fingers over the keys. 

Of the three composers, only one piece has truly committed itself to her memory. She doubts Idina would remember back that far, eleven years ago after hours in a studio at 890 Broadway, where once upon a time, they wove magic together. 

But Kristin can’t forget. 

She muddles through the music, losing herself in the spread of keys until the last note fades.

“That’s _awesome_ ,” Walker says. 

“Why thank you.” 

Kristin smiles at him, then turns, looking across to the kitchen. 

Idina wipes the lost, frozen expression from her face and sets down a plate. “Dinner’s ready.”

 

-

 

Deep red tones tumble into the glass as Idina tips the bottle forward. The label looks familiar, something straight from Napa like the case they bought together, but Kristin knows that’s impossible. 

Idina pours a second glass and they clink them together without a word before taking a sip. It tastes familiar, too. Too familiar, but beautifully aged. 

It's not possible. 

Idina sighs, leaning against the counter. “Of all the Mozart-Chopin-Beethoven concertos in the world…” 

“Sorry.” Kristin looks away, circling her finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s the only one I remember.” 

“How _do_ you remember it?”

“I play it. All the time.”

Idina looks down at the glass in her hand, swirling the liquid around. “He really likes you.” 

“He’s incredible. You’re so lucky.” 

“I am.” She looks up, meeting Kristin’s eyes, her own wrought with nerves. “It’s nice. This.”

“This?” 

“You. Here. With us. It almost feels like… being a family.”

Kristin takes a deep breath. “There are a million reasons.”

“No. Just one.” 

“You know that’s not true.”

They stare at each other, torn between guarding it all in and letting everything out, but it’s not the time or place for either. 

“Mom!” a voice bellows from down the hall. “Have you seen my Batman shirt?” 

Idina blinks, snapping out of it. “I -- I think it’s in the laundry, baby.” 

“Damn it!”  
  
“Hey!” 

“Sorry.” 

Idina rolls her eyes, her lips curling slightly, and Kristin smiles. 

“He is his mother’s son.” 

Idina grins at the floor. “Shut up.” 

Kristin sighs, looking down the empty hallway. From another room, a faucet turns on, and a door clicks shut. 

“ _There’s_ a reason,” she says quietly. 

“What?” 

“Is he ready for another parent? Is he ready for another parent to _leave_ , if it doesn’t work out?” 

“By God, you’re right. Look how miserable he is. I guess I can never date again.” 

“Idina.” 

“Please. Don’t -- don’t say anything.” Idina sets down her glass, her posture stiffening. “Don’t make up bullshit reasons when I know the real ones. I know you. I can’t change you. I don't even know if _you_ can." 

The silence kills, but there’s nothing to say. Kristin doesn’t even know who’s right anymore, or if there’s a right at all. She’s starting to forget what she’s fighting against and what she’s fighting for, and at long last, Idina seems to have lost the will to fight altogether. 

“Mom, I brushed my teeth!” 

Idina closes her eyes, drawing in a breath. “I’ll be right there, sweetie.” 

She stands still, eyes squeezed shut until her face twists under the onslaught of silent tears. Instantly, Kristin moves to pull her into her arms, holding her as close as she dares. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here. Put him to bed, and I’ll be here.” 

Idina pulls back, swiping at her tears. Kristin helps, using the too-long sleeves of her sweater to blot at the wet patches until she’s presentable enough to head down the hall.

Clutching her glass, Kristin makes her way to the sofa and settles in, listening to the muffled voices across the rooms. She can make out a few words here and there; more as Idina gets further into the bedtime story, reading with enthusiasm. Kristin recognizes the rhythm of Dr. Seuss and without a hint of warning, tears spring to her eyes.

Beneath all the risks and the reasons against, this could’ve been her life. Their life. There’s a chance, however small. Or rather, there was. 

 _In the end… I hope to God it’s worth it._  

Idina sweeps into the room and bends down in front of the fireplace, rubbing the chill out of her arms. She flips the gas knob and pokes around in the grate until a bright, roaring flame fills the space.

“Sorry,” she says, taking a seat beside Kristin. “He sleeps better when it’s freezing cold. One of the less desirable traits he gets from his father.”

“What happened?” Kristin asks without preamble. “In the end, with you two.” 

“Turns out he’s bad at monogamy too. Worse than I am, in fact.”

Kristin recalls the rumors, the tabloids, and puts the pieces together. "I’m so sorry.” 

“Karma’s a bitch, right?” Idina smiles. “No, it was -- it’s for the best. It was long overdue.” 

“I’m still sorry.” 

“He told me… at the end… that he just wasn’t attracted to me anymore. But honestly, the feeling was mutual.” 

“Idina. He’s insane.” 

She shrugs. “You can’t control how you feel about someone.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Idina smiles, a bit sadly, and Kristin reaches across the sofa to take her hand. The electricity thrums right back to life at the touch, but it stopped surprising her years ago. 

“Was there…” Kristin starts, caught on nerves, and pushes them aside. “Did you ever… were there any other… women? After me?”

“Just Helen, the once.” Kristin nods in response, and Idina squeezes her hand. “Kristin, you were…”

Kristin catches her eye, only for Idina to look away. 

“It was only ever you,” Idina says softly. 

Kristin feels her chest clench, but one confession deserves another. 

“I slept with Eden.” 

Instantly Idina’s mood shifts, her lips breaking into a triumphant grin. “I _knew_ it!” 

“Shut up, it was only once.” 

“When?!” 

“Two weeks after you slept with Helen.” 

Her face clouds over in understanding, but she reclaims her smile, even if it’s a little less vibrant. “I didn’t even think she was…” 

Kristin smiles. “Guess I just have that effect on younger women.” 

Idina raises an eyebrow. “You most certainly do.” 

“Oh whatever, I was a wreck,” Kristin laughs wistfully. “I missed you so much, I cried all over her. She was… way more understanding than I deserved.” 

“I’m... I'm sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I made it worth her while.” 

“...Did you now?” 

Kristin shrugs, smiling shyly. 

“My, my, Chenoweth,” Idina sighs, shaking her head. “You womanizing fiend.” 

“You know me so well.” 

A warped sort of comfort settles between them as they both stare idly into the fire. There’s a vague pattern to the flames, but no flicker quite matches another. They simply burn on, never the same but never quite changing.

Idina crawls off the couch to curl herself up in front of the heat, folding her knees beneath her. “I forgot, Walker said to tell you goodnight.” 

Kristin follows her, settling close. 

“He has your eyes,” she says. “Oh, Dee… he _so_ has your eyes.” 

“I know.” 

“You look into them and they’re endless. So full of soul.” 

“He is. He’s perfect.” 

“Of course he is, he’s yours.” 

Idina smiles. 

“Confess something to me,” Kristin says suddenly. 

“Something?”

“Anything. It’s cathartic.” 

“I was in love with you the first time you played Chopin.”

Kristin stares at her. 

“Maybe before,” Idina says. “Maybe always.” 

Kristin looks back at the fire, letting it burn the last inhibition to ash. 

“I can top that,” she says. “I’m _still_ in love with you.” 

She can feel Idina’s eyes on her but she can’t look up. She may never again, after this. 

“I -- ” Idina starts, her voice trembling. “I don’t -- know what to -- ”

“Of course you don't, because you’re still in love with me too.”

The silence stretches over minutes, even longer until the flames begin to lose momentum and the room falls a shade darker, casting them in shadows. 

“I wasn’t ready, then,” Kristin says over the pounding of her heart. “I was scared.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re ready now.” 

Kristin looks, but her voice disappears. She searches for it, tries to pull it from the depths of her throat but it’s gone.

Idina looks away, wholly unsurprised. 

“Do you regret those six months?” she asks. “Any of it? All of it?”

Kristin shakes her head firmly. “Not a single clock tick.” 

Idina smiles, and it's the saddest smile Kristin’s ever seen. 

“I’m not saying we made the right decisions,” Kristin says, “or did anything for the right reasons, but... you made me feel… so loved, and so precious... and so alive. I’ll never forget that. I could never… feel that way, about anyone. The way I felt -- _feel_ \-- about you.”

Idina keeps her eyes safely on the fire as they begin to fill with tears. 

“When am I going to see you again?”

“I -- I don’t know.” 

“Then spend the night with me.” 

Their eyes meet. Idina shifts, taking Kristin’s face in her hands. 

"Spend the night," she whispers. "Make pancakes with me in the morning, let me take you to dinner before the show, come home with me tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after that." 

Kristin feels the first tear fall. "Idina." 

“This is the last time I'm ever going to ask.” 

Automatically, Kristin shakes her head, feeling the tears and panic spring to the surface, but Idina stares straight into her eyes and Kristin can’t make herself look away. 

“Kristi. _Take a chance.”_  

“What if we fail?”

“Then we'll know we tried, and you can’t regret trying.” 

“What if…”

“What if it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us?” 

In eleven years, Kristin had never even _considered_ it. 

Slowly, Idina rises to her feet. She holds out a hand, offering the world. 

Kristin takes it.

 

-

 

She blinks awake, scrambling to check her phone when she realizes she never set the alarm. Rehearsal’s in an hour and she still has to make it home to change. 

Beside her, with pale, freckled shoulders peeking over the top of the sheet, Idina is out like a light. Her lips are parted slightly; her eyelashes fan out over her cheeks, and her hair is absolutely everywhere. 

It’s the most impossibly beautiful sight Kristin’s ever seen. 

She watches her sleep, aching, until she can’t. 

A stray, unbidden tear falls to the sheet as she digs quietly in the bedside drawer, finally extracting a loose post-it and a pen. 

Afterwards, she caps the pen, leaving the small green square of scribbled paper beneath Idina’s phone. 

In the gray morning light, Kristin slips back into wrinkled clothes and pulls the door shut behind her.

  
  
  
  


**_fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Kristin’s note said one of two things. I couldn’t decide, because they offer two very different futures, _If/Then_ style, so I leave it up to the reader:
> 
>  **1.**  
>  _Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable._  
>  _I’m sorry._  
>  The acknowledgment that Kristin can’t (or believes she can’t) change who she is, her fears and doubts and hangups, and that she’s walking away for the last time so she can’t cause any more pain. This was the original, to be presented via epilogue from Idina’s perspective -- the truest (if saddest) of truths: we can't change someone no matter how hard we wish it, and fear is a very tough enemy to conquer. But I couldn’t bring myself to write it.
> 
>  **2.**  
>  Kristin’s phone number, followed by _in case you can’t sleep,_ and a heart. A new beginning, as it were -- the realization that, in the end, it’s the risks not taken that we regret the most.
> 
> -
> 
>   
> Thank you all for your beautiful comments, kudos, and messages; this became the most personally challenging story I’ve ever written, and your encouragement made the journey worth it. Special thanks to those who’ve reached out during the times I’ve needed it most. It means a lot. I hope to continue getting to know all of you on Tumblr.
> 
>   
> -
> 
> This story is for Bruna, light of my life, queen of my heart. :)
> 
>   
> 


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